


And We'll Linger On

by paroledog



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: 15 year timespan, Anal Sex, Bottom Peter Parker, Deadpool Fucks, Deadpool is a Genji main, Depression, Does Tony Stark deserve the guillotine?, Growing Older Together, Hot Mess Peter Benjamin Parker, M/M, Minor Deadpool gore, More NYC detail than necessary, Multiple Orgasms, Occasional Comedy, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Peter Parker Gets Flamed on Reddit, Peter cusses, Peter is 38 and Wade is 40 something, Poor Hygiene, Post-Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018), Shower Sex, Spider-Man/Deadpool references, Typical Spider-Man Ass Worship, cock destroyer but make it literal, dubcon elements, minor Avengers action, minor Miles and Gwen appearance, super strength accidents, this was supposed to be porn with plot but turned into plot with very occasional porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28925904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paroledog/pseuds/paroledog
Summary: Deadpool's relentless, decades-long Spider-Man thirst has finally turned him into a good guy. He gets to work with the Avengers, he's gone to therapy (learned nothing, B-T-W), and he owns eleven properties in New York City alone. He's the best he's ever been post-Weapon X, while the Amazing Spider-Man can't even get back with his ex-wife, eat his vegetables, or wash his pillow case.Deadpool should be sad for Spider-Man, because they've been best friends since forever.But he's not.
Relationships: Peter B. Parker/Wade Wilson, Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 89
Kudos: 179





	1. The Puppet Master That Cursed My Dick

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will NOT have the PG tone of the Spider-Verse movie. It’s messy, horny, and has elements of coercion and unhealthy relationships. Turn back NOW if you’re not into it.
> 
> Characterization and events are a combination of Spider-Verse and comics, with tiny MCU tidbits thrown in.
> 
> Now with links to explanations for references!!! (many of them are YouTube so be warned, there shouldn't be any with NSFW images though)
> 
>  **WARNING:** There is pornographic content at the end of the first chapter and its consequences are quite important for the rest of the fic. Mind the tags!

“I saw her [Am I The Asshole](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R/AmItheAsshole) thread on Reddit. She was even nice enough to knock down my age by two whole years. 192 comments. _192 fucking comments_ , Wade. All of them saying I messed up. Bad. Real bad. Really, really bad.” Spider-Man ground his face into his palm. “It’s over.”

"So? You're Spider-Man," said Deadpool flippantly. He took a massive bite of his juicy gyro.

"Gee, thanks for pointing that out. I never noticed."

“Who hasn't gotten a divorce or five at your age? Not a big deal. She let you go easy. Didn't even try to kill you, just left you emotionally devastated, which might be eons worse, but still. You’re Spidey." Deadpool made jazz hands. "The Amazing Spider-Man. Your Friendly-for-New-York-City-standards Neighborhood Arachnidude. Eighth and eight-legged wonder of the world."

"I'm not even the only Spider-Man. I'm an older and more lipid-y version of a dead guy I saw two weeks ago. It's nothing special."

"Now that's where you're wrong, schnookums. See, he's actually the worse version of you because he died. Only pussies do stuff like dying."

Spider-Man made a non-committal, disapproving grunt that would've been a "Deadpool!" if he had still been a wide-eyed college student who believed in world peace and nice cops.

Deadpool placed what was meant to be a comforting hand on his shoulder, and continued, "If it means anything, you're special to me. And to everyone in our corner of the multiverse. Fuck the Spider-Jesus dimension you got shat out in. You are literally as important as the President."

Spider-Man snorted. "How do you figure that?"

"Because I almost carved your face onto Mount Rushmore before SHIELD got me, and now tourists think America was led by an egg." Deadpool gave him a beatific smile and a thumbs up.

He received a crooked smile back.

"I don't know how to feel about a national monument being defaced in my name. And art was never your strong suit."

"I'm real into abstraction these days, Webs. Simplifying the form. You wouldn't get it."

Spider-Man smiled wider, then his smile turned into a grin, and then he laughed a laugh that roiled through his whole body. Deadpool knew what he said wasn't particularly funny, but it seemed like Spider-Man's body knew he needed it and punched the wheezes out of him.

"I appreciate the sentiment though. Thanks, Wade," said Spider-Man.

They continued to sit in companionable silence on the rooftop of the [Jembro](https://www.yelp.com/biz/jembro-queens) on 71st Ave, which had stuck around for some reason, even as better apparel stores popped up around Forest Hills. Spider-Man liked this spot because it gave a great vantage point of Queens Boulevard. Shit was _always_ going down there, whether it was aliens or alien ninjas or pedestrians unknowingly competing against each other in Extreme Jaywalking.

Additionally, their current spot wasn’t too far off from Spider-Man's tragic bachelor brownstone. He wouldn’t admit it, but after the back-breaking incident, he kind of needed the shorter distance.

With a TV-sized bag of Greek food on standby and their masks shoved up to their hairline, the duo watched over the starless, endless span of Queens Boulevard. An average night. They'd done this here and there for quite a few years now. Deadpool couldn't remember since when. Ten years, possibly? Twelve? Fifteen? God forbid, twenty? All he could remember was that N'SYNC had still been a thing back when they first met, because he'd made fun of Spider-Man for actually thinking their lyrics were [about being excited for May](https://knowyourmeme.com/memes/its-gonna-be-may). No one was excited for May, it was a shit month and a less sexy version of June, he'd said. This statement had deeply offended Spider-Man for some reason, who defended May's virtues vigorously.

Deadpool would only know why many years later.

An air vent nearby whistled every few seconds, providing the vaguest semblance of background music as they ate.

To be honest, Deadpool wasn't a fan of Queens. He preferred the Bronx. They had better Mexican food.

The company was nice, though.

As Spider-Man ate, a drip of pearly tzatziki sauce caught in his 5 o’clock shadow. Deadpool — just Wade when they were alone, during these moments - had stopped voicing all the innuendos bouncing around in his overactive brain a long time ago. Spider-Man had been married and off-limits for what seemed like eons, and now that he was single, Deadpool's dick had shot up like marriage tirades had been the secret activation key.

He allowed himself to admire the view of the throat that he’d tracked from when it was the downy, baby smooth column of co-ed Spidey to the corded, angular, and bristly line of sad DILF Spidey.

God. He really hoped his next personal favorite porn category Spidey would morph into was vampire.

Spider-Man, oblivious, started to count off his fingers. “So, back to Reddit. The internet warriors shat on me for, let’s see, tracking blood onto the Tempur-Pedic, for the kids thing, obviously, for always making meatloaf — look, it was edible, kosher, and low calorie enough for the average non-enhanced — for taking her coffee mugs every week because some anthropomorphic dick-of-the-day would show up and mess up mine whenever I was minding my own business, for only picking Chinese whenever we went out — it’s nearby, and it’s cheap, and I really like dim sum, and tapas are a fucking _crime_ — ”

“Yeah. Sucks,” said Deadpool. Spidey stopped his tirade and moaned into his palms.

“Getting her flowers from the store was a massive mistake. The biggest mistake. I should’ve ordered one of those edible bouquets. Ones with Godiva chocolate, and cashmere teddy bears, and Swarovski stems — ”

“You’ll get over it,” said Deadpool. “Fish in the sea. Blah blah. Tinder exists. Hell, Grindr exists. And here's the good news: everyone digs DILFs. Especially ones that still have hairlines. You know that I know what I’m talking about. If I had a single strand left on my caboose, I’d be pulling bigger and better babes than, uh, I don’t know, some demon chick trying to enslave the city.”

“You were literally married to the queen of the underworld. And doing whatever you were doing with Death. And Cable. I dunno, but to me, those are some pretty big fish babes,” said Spidey.

“Yeah, but Shiklah cheated on me _a lot_. Without telling me. [Maury](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maury_\(talk_show\)) would've had something to say about 90% of the stuff she did, and he'd douse his own eardrums in acid over the other 10%, lemme tell you.”

Spider-Man sighed.

“I'd rather be slapped six ways from Sunday by Doc Ock than deal with all these feelings.”

“Yeah,” said Wade, still staring at that neck. “I feel you. I feel you deeply.”

* * *

* * *

Wade considered himself blue balled, but to be honest, he and Spider-Man had actually fucked before. Several times, in fact. Granted, it was when Spidey was twenty five years old and Wade was… thirty something? Time was fluid and he didn’t really give a fuck.

There’d been a mutually decided upon lull in Peter and MJ’s relationship, which had lasted for three years. They weren’t married yet, Peter wasn’t making money at the Bugle, he barely slept watching over the city as Spider-Man, and he washed his bed sheets once a year. It was disgusting. It was tough on Peter, let alone the woman who had loved him for so long. But Wade was simply Deadpool to him then, and Peter was the inimitable Spider-Man.

Deadpool had been respectful (by his standards) of Spider-Man’s boundaries. He was a man of highly inconsistent and dubious morals on a good day, but he was _not_ a homewrecker. With Shiklah, they'd had their freebie list, but given Spidey’s moral grandstanding, he assumed that his local friendly arachnid was a vanilla, missionary position type of guy. Unyieldingly faithful to his high school love, even if she had refused to see him during those three years until his mattress was presentable and his personal life sorted out.

Wade had seen Spider-Man pathetically hover hand Black Cat through the lens of his sniper rifle before.

Still, it did not stop him from engineering all sorts of _suspicious_ situations with Spidey during those three years he was single.

One time, they had gotten trapped in the rubble of a warehouse that had collapsed because of the C4 Deadpool had secretly planted.

He had no choice but to be on top of Webs, body heat deliciously bleeding through the spandex. His dick was right at the apex of Spidey’s pert ass, and maybe rubbing against it _just_ a little more than necessary as he so valiantly struggled to shove off the several tons of concrete above them with his non-enhanced strength. By that time, he and Spidey were good friends and had done team ups, but were still not close enough for Spidey to reveal his civilian identity.

After they had gotten out of the rubble, Spider-Man had asked if he was alright and if he'd been injured, his eye lenses wide with genuine concern. As if Wade had not just obtained his most prime spank bank material of Spidey to date.

He said he had never been better.

Emboldened, he had engineered an incident with sex pollen a month afterwards, but Spidey just fell asleep until it wore off.

He’d planted another situation after that, with a rampaging, mutated tiger driving them both into the confines of a zookeeper’s closet, but even then, crotch cup to crotch cup, heavy pants ghosting each other through their masks, Spidey had just stayed still, his breath smelling vaguely of Big Red and Nissin ramen, and his prone form utterly devoid of Wade-spank-bank-material motion in the ocean. Spidey hadn’t moved at all until the tiger was safely out of range — and honestly, the depths of his self control kind of made it hotter than ever.

Wade wanted more than anything to see him lose it, but each time, Spidey had come out unscathed and true to his incorruptible image.

What it finally took to get Webs to break was an unspoken game of chicken.

It had been early summer and they were on top of the [Flatiron Building](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c3/Edificio_Fuller_%28Flatiron%29_en_2010_desde_el_Empire_State_crop_boxin.jpg) at dusk. The noise level was just barely enough for Spider-Man to be able to relax his heightened senses. Thirty-something-year-old Wade stared judgmentally.

“So, Webs. Lemme get this straight. In all the years you’ve been together, you’ve never gotten pegged?”

“Why does that matter?” Spider-Man’s blush was visible even though the only parts of his face showing were his chin and mouth, to facilitate the inhalation of food. His hair was still a lush brown under the mask, his crow’s feet a whisper on the horizon, the bridge of his nose straight and unbroken. He turned away to hide his embarrassment. An overpriced hot dog stayed half-chewed at his side. Of course, Wade had paid for it. Spidey had still been a penniless grad student and an avid selfie taker for the Bugle.

“It’s like… super basic now. Baby sex haver 101. Middle-aged ladies tittering over mimosas type stuff. I got a badge for it in the Boy Scouts and everything.”

“First, I am deeply concerned about that last statement, and second, we are NOT having this conversation,” groaned Spider-Man.

Wade plowed past his protesting. “I recommend it. Five out of five stars on Yelp. I’m an [Elite](https://www.yelp-support.com/article/What-is-Yelps-Elite-Squad?l=en_US) member, by the way. Try the special! Check-in with your smartphone, prostate massages are free.”

“No. Just... No.”

Wade shrugged. His portion of the hot dogs had all been gone by then and he settled for examining his fingernails, which weren’t visible anyway because he was wearing gloves.

“It's okay, Webs. Not everyone’s man enough for it. Brave, I mean. ‘Man enough’ suggests courage is a strictly masculine quality and we aren't down with that, it’s 2005 — ”

He really hadn’t expected Spider-Man to fall for this line of all things.

“What?”

“It takes someone _real_ special to be okay with someone else’s meat stick in their poop chute. You're not that kind of man, Webs. It’s alright. I’ll still love you.” Deadpool dramatically held his hands to his chest.

Spider-Man stared into the distance, his lenses expressing no particular emotion. The scent of smoke from some unknown source wafted up and up, until it dissipated into the clouds. Deadpool could see the two peaks of Spider-Man’s lips through the mask, formed in an O shape.

When Spider-Man finally had a response, it was to scoff. “Yeah, right.”

“You don’t think I’ll still love you?” Deadpool pouted.

“It can’t be that great. Being fu — screwed there, I mean.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it. But honestly? Take it from a backdoors pro. You probably wouldn’t be able to get to it right away. You’d be an anal newb. Nubster. N00blord. Level 1 Butt Mage. You’re just too tight-assed, know what I mean? And I’m not even talking about the stick up there, like, morally. You wouldn’t be able to fit a lubed up finger in there, even if you wanted to. ‘Cause you’re a noob.”

Spidey’s head swiveled back in his direction.

“I so could,” said Spidey indignantly.

Wade could feel it. His until then buzzing, low level attraction that had been simmering in his belly for years whenever he’d breathe in the other’s air, flaring up into a massive, roaring fire to scream at him that this was It. The Opportunity.

To Fuck The Spider-Man.

Webs had been off-limits previously because of his misguided monogamy. Even as an open-minded single, he wasn’t normally receptive to some good ol’ fashioned sodomy. However, under the guise of having to prove himself, he could be convinced. He was twenty five years old and thus still in the mindset where he wanted more than anything to do the things he was told he couldn’t do.

Deadpool paused upon realizing this.

His eyebrows waggled under the leather.

“Yeah? Prove it.”

That conversation had led up to Spider-Man meeting every so often with Pool comma Dead, unlicensed [anal therapist](https://arresteddevelopment.fandom.com/wiki/Analrapist), masseuse, and sex astrologist, 4.8 stars Psychology Today rating, for rooftop fingering sessions that constantly left Webs on the verge of tears, spent, and gasping for breath.

Whether it was due to his flexibility, enhanced sensitivity to touch, or inherent masochism, he had taken _very_ well to being spread open backdoors. He’d bonelessly let Deadpool shove him against a locked rooftop door, shuck off his bottom spandex, and grind gloved fingers so mercilessly into a hitherto unexplored area that he’d see white.

And _still_ grudgingly ask for more.

Deadpool took his sweet time fingering him open. Spider-Man tried so hard not to make any noise at first, to seem like he was just enduring everything to prove a point. However, the first time Deadpool touched the spot back there, he'd lost control and broke off a massive chunk of concrete in his hand. In that same session, Deadpool finally learned what he sounded like when he came.

At every session since, it was a regular occurrence for Spider-Man to come undone, throat sore from screaming himself hoarse above a sea of buildings. Above all the civilians bustling on the streets who were completely unaware that their Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man was getting debauched only fifty feet above, lube slowly trickling down his thighs like the cooling lava of a volcano, because Deadpool was nothing if not mindful of his partner’s comfort when wringing every last sensation of out of their prostate.

It was almost a challenge to see how loud he could get Webs to be in their sessions, but no matter how [Pavarotti](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luciano_Pavarotti)-like Spider-Man’s moans were, it wasn’t enough. Wade wanted so, so, _so_ badly to grind Spidey’s cheek into the concrete as he jackhammered relentlessly into him, hands gripping those plush glutes like a lifeline, like what only happened in his [adultfanfiction.net](https://fanlore.org/wiki/AdultFanFiction.Net) assassin porn star!Spidey story with the 52 reviews, R&R plz. ^_^

For his own hard-on, he settled for grinding against Spider-Man’s firm, limber thighs until he came in his leather. If Spider-Man was feeling adventurous, Wade would get by on what by all accounts should have been a mediocre blowjob. It was all shy licks against his shaft and choking halfway down the full length, but he came embarrassingly fast anyway. Just looking down at Spider-Man, mask pulled up to the nose, lower face flushed red, throat fluttering around his hardness, and long fingers stroking his dick as if it was a skittish baby deer, was enough to get him off.

At first, Spidey wouldn't swallow, finding the taste unpleasant, and spat everything out. However, he was easily goaded into guzzling cum with the same old logic ("I know it's tough being new to fellatio, so you don't have to swallow. MJ didn't? Well, ain't it a relief you're not together anymore?"). He even got better at deep throating under Deadpool's tutelage. It was like training his own previously heterosexual Amazing Spidey-Slut.

After every session, Deadpool thought that even if Spidey never talked to him again afterwards, he would have enough jerk off material to last him the next century. It was definitely enough to get him off in his showers and during every single one of his insomnia-fueled masturbation sessions.

And maybe, just maybe, he and Spidey could be boyfriends after all that.

It felt even more blasphemous than the fantasies he had about fucking him.

He had visions of crocheting a beanie in their shared senior home. Spidey in a bathrobe reading the papers, his slippered feet propped on an ottoman, a pipe in his hand. Spidey bridal carrying him in lingerie to their canopy bed. Wade, in an apron, with giant anachronistic Care Bear oven mitts, setting the roast turkey down onto their checkered tablecloth. For some reason, they were still masked in all of Wade’s fantasies.

Still, he had to be patient.

No matter how flexible Webs was, he had to be eased into what Wade really wanted, both relationship-wise and ass-wise.

At their seventh discreet fingering and frottage session, it seemed like Wade would get what he was wishing for. Spidey would kiss him back hungrily in their latest sessions, tasting of cilantro, maybe cumin, and sometimes lox, because they would always do it after eating. Spidey would huskily remark on how amazing his lats looked that day, how many reps did he do to get those? He had never seen a man as built as Deadpool. Wade preened.

For half a year, their routine was enough. He was satisfied, and didn’t feel the compulsion to put a bullet in his brain when he could’ve spent the time jerking away the pain.

Sadly, everything he hoped for came to a screeching halt when he actually, finally fucked Spider-Man in the ass.

It was a Saturday night, so Webs could afford to stay out longer than usual. Wade could easily fit three, even four fingers inside him now. He’d been able to do so for a while and he’d always come grinding on Spider-Man’s thigh before he could get to suggesting the pounding. His healing factor-powered refractory period didn’t mind, but Webs did. Once Spider-Man came, he wouldn’t stick around. He would pull up that cock-blocking blue spandex, say, “See ya around, DP,” and swing off into the night.

Spider-Man was a stand up hero, but as a dude, he was a hit it and quit it type of dickhead. Spider-Man gave everything to the city, but during sex, he mostly took.

Deadpool decided to try his luck. He had Spider-Man writhing in the palm of his hand. He even knew his name now — Peter, which he had learned when he'd felt a bit resentful after getting left high and dry after their latest hump session and followed Spidey home at one AM. He'd loomed over him on the stained mattress, jerkily palming through sweatpants, until Spidey had panted his weak protests away. He hadn’t seemed to really mind Deadpool following him to his safe place, had maybe even welcomed it.

The Spider-Lair was the epitome of tragic. The hamper overflowing to the floor and the book of Target coupons for [Lean Cuisine](https://www.target.com/c/frozen-meals-entrees-foods-grocery/lean-cuisine/-/N-5xsz8Z56eff?Nao=0) meals on Peter’s dresser had said everything.

Any normal multi-millionaire and supernatural babe connoisseur like Deadpool would have just left for greener romantic pastures and never looked back.

Sadly, he was not normal.

He looked into Petey’s infinite, widened pretzel-brown eyes — he had found out Spider-Man’s real name through seeing the high school graduation certificate taped slightly off-center in the living room — and made him come twice more that night, since Mr. Peter Benjamin Parker, Bugle photographer, couldn’t well escape from their encounter in his own home. He’d sucked Mr. Parker off, fingers rubbing slow prayer circles around his prostate — and had Peter come that way. He kept going even after Peter held his arms over his eyes and complained of being oversensitive in a voice that sounded suspiciously close to sobs. Whenever Peter tried to pull away from his punishing fingers, he'd grip Peter's thighs in place hard enough to bruise and work the loose hole further.

He waited for Peter to say, "Stop, it hurts," wanted to make Spider-Man beg for mercy from pleasure. Wanted to ruin him in all the ways he had ruined Wade.

He shoved Peter’s arms to his sides and stared straight into Peter’s eyes, grinding against his crotch until he finally achieved his own orgasm and left Peter indignant from getting half hard again.

Anyway, that led up to the fateful, ass-pounding encounter on the tallest rooftop they'd ever done it on. It was on top of the [Citibank building](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/One_Court_Square), a massive phallic testament to a crucial happening in their… friendship. Yes. Friendship. Back then, it was a non-issue for Spider-Man to be far away from Forest Hills, with his unbroken back, un-drone-traumatized face, and unbroken nose.

“Hey, P.P.,” said Deadpool, three lubed fingers deep in Spider-Man’s ass, which was looking a bit lacking in volume as of late from surviving on Target's Maruchan sale. Deadpool would have to engineer ways to correct that without alerting Spidey's handout aversion. “I think you’re ready. For the real thing.”

“Can you maybe not refer to me by that acronym? P.P.? Really?”

“But we're doing dick stuff, Pete. Speaking of dick, I’m going to put mine in you now.”

Spidey’s lenses widened.

“What? Wait — I’m — ”

Deadpool leveled a look at him.

"Are you ready for the big kahuna or not?"

"I…" Spider-Man squeezed his eye lenses shut. "Okay."

Suddenly, Deadpool felt the slightest twinge of guilt for tricking Spider-Man into pity fucking what he probably regarded as a years long moral pet project. He wanted to offer a way out.

 _No_ , he told himself. _He's getting something out of this too. I bet Spider-Man thinks he's healing me. Fucking me into teetotaling murder._

If that were the case, it had worked. Thirst had finally made Deadpool one of the good guys. The high pedestal pansies. He hadn't killed anyone in the last year.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"...Yes," whispered Spider-Man. Then in a hoarser voice, he said, "I want it."

Something ugly unfurled within him. He wanted it. _Not me. My dick._

The thought was easily pushed away from the forefront of his brain. After all, there was a monumental horny moment dangling in front of him.

Inch by inch, his dick slowly entered Peter’s — _< Spider-Man’s_ — righteous, round bottom, the ideal inhabitant of heather grey sweatpants everywhere, until he bottomed out and his balls were flush with Peter’s ass cheeks.

Spider-Man’s lenses widened into saucers, his masked face looking back at Deadpool and more expressive than it had ever been before. His voice was breathy. “Deadpool — _Wade_ — "

Wade began to move, brushing his dick against Spider-Man — _Peter’s_ — prostate, which he had encountered multitudes of times before from fingering him on various rooftops. His balls slapped against Peter’s ass with every thrust, lube slowly leaking out of Spider-Man in a manner that was incredibly lewd and at odds with what the red and blue suit usually represented. Peter moaned into the air. He unwittingly arched up his spine, his face and palms pressing into the concrete, his expression completely unreadable to the world but the proffered ass undeniable.

Now _this_ was looking like a scene straight out of Wade’s fanfics.

After months of fingering and rutting against Spider-Man, Wade had a great idea of how to hit Spider-Man’s sweet spot every time. Peter came embarrassingly fast, but Wade didn’t relent.

He could see tears making their way through Spider-Man’s eyes at the overstimulation, patches of darkened fabric appearing under his lenses. His dick twitched, wanting to stand upright again but limited by his slower refractory period and legs made weak by oversensitivity. Even then, Spider-Man took it, lips pressed thin to keep his noises inside, saying nothing after preparing himself for months. It was easy for Wade to imagine a few tears rolling down that boyish, lanky face, behind the widened lenses of Spider-Man’s mask.

And when Wade came inside his ass, it was like nothing he’d ever experienced before.

He blanked out for several seconds, his white-hot orgasm melting him inside-out and proceeding to flood Spidey’s channel, the culmination of his _months, years_ of fantasizing over Spidey. He'd spent his time branding those insides with his fingers and now he was finally claiming what was his. He felt satisfied knowing that if Spider-Man had ovaries, he'd probably be pregnant. Spider-Man egg laying theorycrafting might have been a thing in his browser history.

At that moment, Spidey _clenched_.

It wasn’t a normal clench. Ostensibly, Spider-Man hadn’t experienced the sensation of being ejaculated in with any of his past partners, and didn’t anticipate controlling his super-strength inside his asshole with the finesse he did the rest of his muscles.

Webs moaned, hundreds of feet above, on top of the Citibank Manhattan, the tallest structure they had ever done the nasty on, hundreds of feet above oblivious civilians, cries completely deafened by the wind and sheer magnitude of the distance. He moaned like the Spidey of Wade’s deepest dreams, low and throaty in a way Wade had never heard before.

Wade had never felt hornier before that moment.

Then Spidey's velvety hot insides tightened, and Deadpool's dick snapped off.

Webs didn’t realize his sphincter had betrayed him, sealing a part of Deadpool inside.

All the blood that had concentrated in that area spurted out like a geyser. At first, he found it kind of hot. And then, he realized — after a second of leaving his dick inside Spidey’s perfectly rotund tush, that he’d had thoughts on and off about ever since he first glimpsed Spider-Man in the news — it was painful. Really painful. Like, painful as fuck.

He’d had an immense amount of practice having his various body parts amputated, from his arms to his legs and even his head, but little Wade? Not so much. He had actively blotted out all of those times Dr. Killbrew might have done such a thing from his memory, and now they only appeared in his nightmares, interspersed with weird sex dreams where Wolverine was giraffe-themed.

He’s pretty sure he screamed.

Webs probably hadn’t realized that he’d accidentally clenched someone’s dick off in his own ass, blood dripping down his thigh, second by second, drop by tantalizing drop. His lenses were shut in an expression of sheer ecstasy that he kept until he realized the dick inside him wasn’t moving anymore.

Wade stared at him, wishing he could see Peter, the photographer, brown hair floating gently in the breeze, the Starbucks Americano with two shots of hazelnut eyes staring back at him.

He was at peace.

“I am so turned on right now,” said Wade, completely dickless and in the nirvana of blissful pain that was consequential to having an amputated dick in Webs’ ass. Spider-Man turned his head around from where it was on the ground and exhaled, narrowing his eyes, although only his lenses conveyed it.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” he demanded. Wow, Deadpool had fucked him so silly that he had even started to swear. "Do it again. You’ve been waiting for this, right? Make it count.”

“I’d love to, Webs, but you broke my dick off in your ass,” said Deadpool, surprisingly calm to his own ears.

Spider-Man's lenses stayed narrowed. “This isn’t funny.”

“It’s the damn truth,” said Deadpool. “My hemoglobin’s partying in you right now.”

Spider-Man gingerly reached behind him and fingered his own asshole in a movement that would’ve been the oxygen to Deadpool’s flame if he still had a dick. Upon bringing those fingers to his face and examining them, his entire body froze.

He pulled the blue spandex up so fast it almost ripped. With blood rolling down both their bodies and leaving fat puddles of red across the concrete, he jumped off the roof.


	2. Get In Loser, We're Going Smuggler-Busting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if you saw this before, I'm trying to break up the writing into shorter lengths.
> 
> Clint Barton is referred to by his real name because at this point, Kate Bishop has fully taken up the mantle of Hawkeye.

Anyway, that’s how Spider-Man never had sex with him ever again. Now Webs was complaining about a divorce during his mid-life crisis as if Deadpool was still an anal therapist, but without the anal. They’d met up again six months after the accidental dick breaking incident, and neither of them had ever, __ever__ mentioned it since then. Wade had had to hunt down Peter, who was avoiding him by any means necessary, and had approached him as if the penis separation had never happened. It was like they had never fucked and Deadpool had never put his fingers anywhere in Spider-Man that the sun didn’t shine.

It helped that Deadpool didn't mention anything either, after a few aborted attempts to broach the subject. The more he brought it up, the more Spider-Man would avoid him. Honestly, he’d found the dick snapping pretty hot, but it seemed to have traumatized the other in an irreversible way. He seemed more mute in the face of Deadpool’s innuendoes than ever before.

Wade had accumulated the vaguest semblance of social intelligence over all those decades he’d stayed alive on the planet, so he didn’t push it.

With Peter having blown his shot with his ex-wife yet again, it’d been thirteen years since they last did anything sexual, and Deadpool had convinced himself it was fine. Totally fine. There were other fish in the sea. He’d long come to terms with his post-Weapon X appearance, to the point he didn’t even register the smirking blonde in fatigues in old photos as himself. He couldn’t imagine a time in his life when he didn’t feel his blood vessels constantly shifting under his skin. He didn’t even remember when he’d finally just given up on hating how he looked. It just took too much energy, and he finally just got too tired for that shit.

He was objectively ugly but he’d become numb to it, and he might as well get some non-Spider-Man tail out of it. He still had dreams on occasion of white lenses locked onto his face, red fabric rustling on the roof of a non-descript health center somewhere in Forest Hills.

But it was fine. He was fine. He’d suffered far, far worse.

Which is how he could listen to Spidey, still disgustingly attractive despite his more expansive waistline and reluctance to venture above 125th Street nowadays, complain about his lingering divorce drama.

Sometimes, Wade felt like he hadn’t aged a day since Spidey was a fresh- faced college student, waist trim, walk swaggering, hair thick and shiny like ripe wheat. He could remember the last day he’d been intimate with Webs more clearly than any other, and he was in his forties now. He could barely remember attending Peter’s wedding. The regular life milestones he used to think about were distant. He’d seen glimpses of his decrepit senior self in time travel shenanigans, and that was the only comfort he had that maybe, just maybe, he’d finally get to leave the mortal plane with Spidey by his side. It was pathetic, more pathetic than Spidey pretending to be oblivious around Black Cat.

Wade thought he had gotten over hating himself long ago.

In the present, he unwrapped his sixth gyro.

“The bachelor life ain’t so bad,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind dying a crazy cat lady. I mean, I’ve already got the crazy, and cats are cute as fuck. Sphynxes are basically my fursona.”

“Cats? Cute? Tell that to my landlord,” sighed Spidey.

“Hey, score a Fluffykins off Craigslist if it’ll make you happy. He doesn’t have to know.”

“Right. Easy for you to say, Mr. [HGTV](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HGTV) wet dream. You own, what, eleven apartments in New York City alone?”

“I dunno. I think I might even have a building. Somewhere in Fordham, I think? Signed that bad boy like ten years ago.” Wade shrugged.

Spider-Man was silent. He probably didn’t want to be reminded of how destitute in comparison he was right now.

“You're welcome to crash in one of them if you want,” said Wade, knowing the answer.

Spider-Man was still Spider-Man, and he would not accept handouts. He was too proud and self-sacrificing for that, and there was no real way to phrase “Only super cool people accept free apartments” in a goading manner.

Spider-Man stared at him, then slowly sounded out his next words, his eyebrows dipping down onto the top of his eyelids.

“What the hell is a babadook?”

* * *

* * *

He didn’t want to be the second option, the consolation prize after Peter had failed to reconcile with MJ. He knew what he was worth. Yeah, he looked like the microscopic close up of a diseased potato and had walked around in the same stupid costume for decades, but he was loaded, funny, and charming. So he told himself. Also, the chicks he’d talked to on [SeekingArrangement.com](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/SeekingArrangement) said so.

Anyway, Deadpool had been part of the Avengers for a while, a bona fide superhero, and that had to count for something. He didn’t need to settle for a divorced, depressed, old news crush who mostly sought him out to complain about the shambles of his marriage and insisted he wasn't crying when he watched Titanic. Redheads, letting their lovers sink, blah blah blah. That movie only served to remind Wade of how utterly tragic Leo's jawline was nowadays. Man, he used to be a Twink God.

Wade lay in his king size bed in his Upper West Side safehouse, arms folded behind his head.

Honestly? Life was great. Just peachy. He’d gone to therapy, mandated by Iron Douche and only made possible by robust Avengers health insurance because this country was a hellhole (a quality he was unfortunately attracted to). He'd accumulated his fortune through non-lethal means (thanks to Spider-Man’s influence), and had finally become the quasi-functional adult his thirty-year-old self could only dream of, all in the tender, nubile decade of his forties.

So why the fuck, just _why_ couldn’t he move on?

This was so stupid.

Before they first met, he'd assumed Spidey was off the rails crazy, like him. That was what initially drew him in. How could someone regularly deal with gangs, human traffickers, pedophiles, and other piles of human refuse, and still think the planet was better off with them still on it? He couldn't fathom the idea. Spider-Man had to be completely insane.

Then he saw how fiercely Spider-Man avoided being seen unmasked. Maybe he was an omega-level butterface hiding his insecurities under a costume too. They even had the same taste in outfits. Baller.

Not only was Spider-Man enhanced like him, but Deadpool was convinced that Spider-Man was also crazy and ugly. And they even drew from a similar well of pop culture references!

Clearly, they were meant to be.

He’d plot all sorts of shit to get in Spidey’s good graces. Get Spidey close enough to breathe on, even if it meant getting them both into life-threatening situations. Woo Spidey with his new and improved don’t-shiv-shitheads-even-if-they-really-deserve-it philosophy. Be there for Spidey when he was sad. Grudgingly admit that bagels were not just nasty, oversized pucks of bread that didn't even maim people as well as a real puck.

It didn’t work. He ended up being the best man at Peter’s wedding.

He had hoped against all hopes that he’d get over his feelings with time. Sadly, Peter remained his best friend through thick and thin, and thus would not worm himself out of Wade’s brain pan. Not even when Spider-Man first rolled up his mask to his nose and there were no hints of possible facial deformities, nor when Wade slowly started to accept that Spider-Man had ascended beyond any level of insane to truly believe that people could change from being lifelong shitheads. At first, Deadpool tried the having mercy thing solely to impress Spider-Man, and then kept doing it to keep impressing him.

He didn't know how, but one day, he actually started to agree with him, from his heart. Because he had become undying proof of a reformed lifelong shithead.

He played himself.

He kept trying to give himself other reasons why he should stop being attracted to Peter. Best friends were _not_ supposed to be sexy. Peter had seen him fried into a flesh puddle by aliens with laser eyes, had unflinchingly shoved his swaying intestines back into his abdominal cavity, had stayed by him as he bled all over Peter's clean sheets regenerating his entire lower half, had seen him shrug at the long past expiration date of some packaged arepas and scarf them down.

He’d seen Peter heave up chunks of their last Taco Tuesday after being slammed into an adamantium wall in a Hydra facility. He’d tried to cheer Peter up after Peter's eyes were shiny and red all night upon failing to stop the murder of an elderly Albanian lady in time. He’d watched Peter awkwardly shake hands with a person in a Hello Kitty suit in Times Square. [He’d transfused his own blood](https://marvel.fandom.com/wiki/Earth-18236) into Peter’s veins after the broken back incident, to keep Spider-Man’s heart beating and his status as New York City’s protector for several years more, maybe even eternally, if Wade could help it.

God, he didn’t want to reckon with his feelings when he’d started truly knowing Spider-Man as a person, and he didn’t want to reckon with them now. He hated that his opportunistic brain had latched onto Peter being a sad divorcé, but most importantly, newly single. His mental channels were flooded with a singular thought:

 _Hey, maybe you have a chance_.

* * *

* * *

“Hey,” said Peter one day on the roof of the old [St. John’s hospital](https://qns.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/Queens-Pointe-2.jpg) across from Queens Center Mall, a month after they’d eaten gyros on top of Jembro. “Didn’t you blow me here once?”

“Don’t remember,” said Wade too easily. “Man, I’m really hating Ibiza right now.”

“Remind me. Was that the one where your brain got messed with by the killer robots, or was it the one where you got shot in the head by bear-men?”

“I got shot at by bear-men? Sounds like a good time. If I didn’t remember that, I don’t know how I’d live with myself. Fuck. Imagine forgetting about furry daddies shooting their load all over you.”

“Haha. Guess so," said Peter absently.

They sat in silence, basking in the moonlight for a while. The patrol that night had been uneventful. Peter had nothing new in his life to discuss, as the majority of his spare time nowadays was spent being a floor mattress and dollar pizza connoisseur. Wade had already related his most recent harrowing tale of spotting a plainclothes Magneto at Trader Joe's, who had caused him to be ejected from the store. Magneto, clad in a polo and slacks pulled up to his waist (of course), wouldn't acknowledge his fashion compliments and he had to resort to increasingly drastic measures to get a reaction. The whole incident really grinded his gears because he had been looking forward to trying the cookie butter ice cream everybody was losing their shit over.

As he was manhandled out of the store, he glimpsed Mags looking over the fruits section. He clearly didn't even go there often if he entertained the thought that produce at Trader Joe's was edible.

So unfair.

It struck Wade that he should ask what had suddenly made Peter remember that they had ever had sex after thirteen years of refusing to acknowledge that it ever happened. Did Peter reminisce about it every so often, like it was a particularly nostalgic trip to Disneyland? Did he have convoluted nightmares about it? Did he daydream so hard about it in the shower that he dissociated for two hours and ended up knocking himself out on the bathroom tiles?

Did he maybe, just _maybe_ , kind of understand Wade’s feelings?

"What made you remember our tryst? Feeling lonely, Petey?"

"I dunno. Just popped into my mind." Peter's expression was unreadable, his chin on his hand.

Time had dulled the incident Wade wanted to talk about.

He decided to drop the bomb anyway.

"Remember when my dick snapped off in your ass?"

"Oh yeah," said Peter easily.

"And you freaked out and didn't talk to me for a year?"

"Nah, it wasn't that long. You're exaggerating."

"Now that I think about it, it was really funny. Man. Just shit bros do, am I right? Leave their bleeding dick stumps in each other?" Wade chuckled, then slapped his knee a little too jerkily for emphasis.

Peter raised an eyebrow. The bags under his eyes were particularly prominent. "Yeah?"

They'd been friends since forever. Wade didn't want to upset the balance, not when knowing Peter was now an intrinsic part of his being.

In the back of his mind, he also knew that Peter didn't have anyone else right now, and it would be selfish to destroy his last social lifeline over not only something that happened over a decade ago, but also his own self-centered desire. He'd become better than this, thanks to Spider-Man. He took bullets and lost limbs for other people as easily as breathing now. He shouldn't do something so untoward to his best friend, like corner him about his own unresolved feelings.

He'd felt like the one looking up at Spider-Man and lapping up whatever crumbs remained at his blue feet for so long. But recently, Spider-Man felt… reachable.

Vulnerable.

Even when he'd found the gawky kid under the mask, Spider-Man still radiated a goodness and normalness that was both alienating and fascinating.

But now? He was finally the trash fire Deadpool envisioned him being, back when he didn't know anything about Spider-Man and thought there was a kindred spirit under the suit.

An enhanced specialty therapist Tony Stick-Up-The-Ass kept in employment had told Wade that communication was the key to healthy relationships. He had praised Wade for being generally talkative and open about his feelings, but said that he tended to deflect reflection and honesty with humor.

Wow. Mind blown. Wade never would have guessed. Pack it up, folks. Chucklefuck McArmchair knew what he was talking about.

He knew better now about how to approach testy issues in a tactful manner.

"And by God, I'd do it again," he blurted.

"What?"

"I would take you on a one way ticket to pound town. Even with a free castration day tour thrown in."

Peter scratched the scruff at the back of his neck. "Um. Good to know?"

Wade was nodding furiously now, amped up with manic energy, his voice increasing in speed. "Yeah. I thought about you the entire time you were married, TBH. Like, just destroying you and you destroying me. All day, every day. 24/7 because you know I don't need sleep, baby. I've been blue balled into oblivion. If my balls were pureed in a blender, [Marc Chagall](http://www.summerschool.uct.ac.za/marc-chagall-and-supremacy-blue) could paint with it. It'd be a masterpiece, they'd hang it in the MoMA, and people would be paying top dollar to nod knowingly at the remnants of my nutsack."

Peter looked slightly taken aback. His face went through several different stages of expression, all within a few seconds. First, his eyes widened, then he rolled them, then he stopped himself, then he scrunched up his chin in thought.

Finally, he looked strangely soft.

"It must've been hard to have me verbal diarrhea all over you about my marriage," he said quietly.

It would've been easier if Peter had been pissed off about it. That would've been a normal, human reaction. Instead, he chose now of all times to be Spider-Man through and through, understanding to the point of absurdity.

Sadly, that was a thing Wade liked about him too.

Peter continued, "Honestly, I've known about," he gestured widely, "this for a while."

"Yeah? What gave it away? The fact that I wanted us to have matching Will and Hannibal Twitter pics? My 500k slow burn Spider-Man/reader Word document in 30pt font that is conspicuously open any time you're over? Your spare suit I borrowed that I returned with the crotch area missing? The — "

"Bud… and here I thought __I__ was bad at wooing. I dropped Hannibal after the fifth episode."

"Philistine!"

"I can't get into your rainbow horse show either. Sorry. Guess that means we're just totally sexually incompatible."

"Oh no. No, nope, nopiters, you're going to have to watch MLP at my place. In 4k. Not on your pathetic 22 incher. Haha, that's what she said…" Suddenly, Wade's brain pinged him and silently yelled that Peter had said something about sexual compatibility. Did that mean he'd thought about them together? Sexually? The bread crumb was so tantalizing.

"Okay. But elephant in the room," grumbled Peter.

"Yeah, yeah. The big question. Here we go." Wade took a deep breath. "Why didn't you ask me about TGI Spidey's? What's wrong with you?"

"We've gone over that whole shebang already, Wade. Around fifty times. Remember?"

"Yeah, but it was the biggest fuck up ever, so I'm morally obligated to remind you every five minutes or so. Ooh! Let's set a reminder for four minutes and forty five seconds from now! Remind Peter Piper of his colossal failure to consult a guy with thriving Swiss accounts on finance!"

"You spend thousands each month buying Funko Pops just to destroy them," Peter pointed out. "Since when were you a business guru?"

"I'm ridding the world of evil, one beady eye at a time," Wade said weakly.

It occurred to him that the conversation had moved away from what he had really wanted and that was completely his fault. He was deflecting from the danger zone of feelings again, because talking about stupid shit was safe. Easier. Second nature, because he'd done it since forever.

Maybe he had to shut up, because words just weren't doing it.

Slowly, he leaned over and put his head on Peter's shoulder, his scalp tingling with the brush of Peter's stubble. Ahh, Petey hadn't been taking his showers. He smelled slightly like that strip of crotch he'd cut out of the Spider-Man suit, which he had lied to Peter about and said a dog had bitten off, mixed with careless swipes of Right Guard and Johnson & Johnson Baby Powder.

Laying on him felt like home.

Peter didn't flinch at the contact. He just put his giant, callused fingers on top of Wade's and rubbed the skin on top of his knuckles.

* * *

* * *

Eleven years ago, Deadpool had asked Spider-Man if he'd been upset at how his identity had been found out through being followed home. Deadpool had expected extensive finger wagging on invasion of privacy, illegally breaking in, stalking, and maybe consent, but he never got it. He knew without a doubt that he'd still be forgiven afterwards, because that was Spider-Man's greatest strength and most glaring character flaw.

"Upset? Not really," Spider-Man had said vaguely. He refused to elaborate any further. They didn't talk about it again, and eventually, they even forgot there was a time when they didn't know each other's names or Xbox handles.

* * *

* * *

Spider-Man wasn't even objectively that good looking. Not to be vain, but the Canadian dreamboat who lived on in Wade's cobwebbed high school photo albums was hotter. That guy was a stone cold Chad. He would've shoved Spider-Man into a locker and pulled his pigtails in class.

When he first saw Peter’s face, he didn't have any expectations of what Spider-Man looked like other than _not a freak like me_ , which was already disappointing enough.

Wade could concede some points though. Peter had a nice jawline. His pecs were well-defined, hairless, and very gropeable. He had an adorable cut dick. He had tousled fuckboy hair without knowing it was fuckboy hair and before it became fuckboy hair.

There was always a spark of softness in his eyes, even for someone as shitty as Deadpool.

His gaze turned him human.

Anyway, Peter wasn't that special. He wouldn't stand out at the club unless every guy there was below 5'9" and built like a brick shit house. The Spider-Man costume, like a really colorful gimp suit, added an air of mystery that made him alluring. Out of it though? He was NOT stunning. His penchant for corny logo tees and oversized pants as a civilian didn't help.

"He's not even that hot," Wade had grunted to himself in the shower during one of those long, long years when Peter was ensconced in matrimonial bliss and when he was trying not to think about Spider-Man’s post-orgasm expressions. "Like, if you think about it, he's roughly the same attractiveness level as Andrew Garfield. Ha, see what I did there? But maybe kinda hotter? He doesn't need contouring or padding to hoodwink everyone on the internet about his ass.

"Also, he's married to a ten out of ten, and you're a negative five hundred. Which means he doesn't like you, which means thinking about him is stupid, which means you're stupid, which means the last twenty minutes you've spent thinking about him is stupid. What are you, twelve? Some nice guy crying over the friend zone? You're not even nice. You're just a co-worker who buys him food and plays Super Smash Bros with him and tells him he shouldn't have gotten that haircut."

The shower soliloquy did not help. He was still thinking horny Peter thoughts, which Fuckface McShrink said was normal but otherwise had no suggestions on how to alleviate.

This was when he'd usually start looking for assholes to off, but he didn't do that anymore, and nothing else relieved stress quite like it. Killing himself violently was a bitch to clean and made the pad a stinkhole, and his healing factor was so insatiable nowadays that he needed to lug up a mountain of pentobarbital from Mexico to do the same job.

Beating up hapless schmucks under the mantle of vigilante justice didn't do it either, because he only did patrols for Spidey, and going on them alone would remind him of Spidey.

He left the shower, put on clothes, and sat on his new 90's squiggly fabric couch that would probably get shot up and need replacing in a week.

"Let's kill fake people!" he yelled to no one in particular.

He booted up Call of Duty Black Ops on his Xbox.

Five minutes into mindless shooting, he received a message from PBParke8.

God, Peter was relentless in reminding Wade he existed. Even the lameness of the username pissed him off. It was like advertising that he was a boring married dude who had his shit together and didn't look at internet memes.

**_PBParke8:_** Cod sucks pal. Wanna play something that doesnt reinforce toxic gun culture? :-)

Why was Peter even online? Last Wade had heard, he and Mary Jane had bought their very own broom closet in Manhattan so they could more easily commute to their jobs. Peter was sitting on a respectable pile of capital from finally cashing in on the Spider-Man brand, and was thinking about a related business venture to invest in. It was all disgustingly domestic. Well-adjusted. Normal. They probably ate home cooked mashed potatoes every night. Mary Jane didn't even like video games, which blew Wade's mind. Vanessa could fuck him up like nobody's business in Tetris.

**_noobmaster69:_** u reinforce toxic gun culture

 ** _PBParke8:_ **Wade that makes no sense

 ** _ _noobmaster69__ :** pretend its a joke about ur arms

 ** _PBParke8:_ **The shark week thing last week was the pinnacle of your career. Its ok bud. You dont have to try anymore. I won't judge you

 ** _ _noobmaster69__ :** y u on neways? dont u have some [trees to shake](https://animalcrossing.fandom.com/wiki/Tree) for the missus

 ** _PBParke8:_** MJs out with the girls. And I have no friends to hang out with

 _ **noobmaster69:**_ ouch

 ** _PBParke8:_** Lol.

After a minute, another message from Peter flashed onto the screen.

**_PBParke8:_** Ill get out of your hair. Catch you around :-)

He logged off but most likely had just gone invisible. He was moody like that. It came with being a goody two shoes martyr.

Damn him for ruining what had been five minutes of Peter-free relaxation time. Wade almost threw his controller out the window but quickly stopped because something else caught his attention. What the hell, Captain effing America had _finally_ decided to enter the 2010s and logged on. Maybe he had thought the Xbox 360 was a vacuum cleaner and turned it on by accident, but who cared?

This was a historic moment. Wade had a sexy living relic to harass.

Cap turned out to be disgustingly bad at video games and was a flaming target of ire for every gamer in the lobby. He also had the quaintest ideas about what "gg ez" and "kys noob" might mean. It was endlessly entertaining to see Cap getting verbally destroyed by thirteen year olds who had no idea that they were threatening someone who had stood up to actual Nazis. Cap was completely nonplussed about being lashed out at, only huffing, "Oh boy," “Where are their parents?” and "I don't think ballistics work like that" every so often through his mike.

Wade enjoyed himself immensely that evening. Who was Peter Parker? Wade didn't know her.

* * *

* * *

He didn’t used to be so close to the Avengers to the point that he could get Captain America to tolerate his presence even through the discordant peals of screaming gamer children. In fact, they’d hated him. Tony, the control freak, had despised him in particular as a perceived avatar of wanton destruction and murder.

“I could put a word in for you with the Avengers,” said twenty-three-year-old Spider-Man one day after Deadpool had helped him dispatch some muggers. He jogged a little on the balls of his feet. “You’re doing really good these days.”

“Aw shucks, baby boy, but I’ll have to decline.”

Spider-Man folded his arms. “Why?”

“Their treehouse isn’t my style, they don’t like me, they’re the reason I can’t even go to Panera Bread without being tailed, they don’t like me, Tony Stark deserves the guillotine, they don’t like me, I’m a Beyoncé-style sexy solo act, and did I mention that they don’t like me?”

“Hey, I like you. And I think we work pretty well together. So it’s not that hard to work with, what, maybe three other people? The teams are usually pretty small, unless it’s code red, all-hands-on-deck, massive alien invasion type stuff.”

“Pass.” Deadpool turned around, about to leave so he didn’t have to deal with this conversation. He respected Spider-Man and was miffed at the prospect of him possibly having been turned into some shitty superhero recruiter for Iron Man's boy band. Before he could walk off, however, Spider-Man quickly cut in front of his path.

“They’re asking me to go on a reconnaissance gig this weekend. It’ll be a doozy. Promise,” Spider-Man pleaded.

“Why do you want the Heathers to like me so bad?” Deadpool scoffed. “I’m not doing all this no-kill shit to gain VIP access to their club. I'm not a good guy, and I don’t want it.”

Spider-Man stared at the ground. His voice came out as a mumble.

"It’d just be nice havingyouaround — ”

“Oh! Wait! Wait wait wait. I’ll do it,” Deadpool squealed, a thought popping into his head. “If Cap’s there. Is he gonna be there? I’d cut through an army of baddies for an autograph.”

Spider-Man somehow radiated relief through his mask. “Yeah, he’s going to be there.”

Deadpool held out his hand expectantly, and Spider-Man shook it.

“Fuck yeah, I’ll be there. Every Beyoncé needs their Michelles and Kellys.”

* * *

* * *

A month after the momentous conversation at St John’s Hospital where Peter had acknowledged the existence of Wade’s feelings and their sex history, Wade dialed Peter’s number. It picked up on the tenth ring.

“Hey, Pete. You died yet?”

“No. Why’d you call,” came a very muffled, fresh-out-of-sleep voice.

“Me and the crochet club are meeting up Thursday night. Weapons deal going down. Wanna join? I know you’re busy suffocating on moldy pizza fumes, but I thought it’d be a nice excursion. Get some fresh air.”

Peter abruptly ended the call with a beep. Wade smashed redial.

It took him five tries of doing so until his call was finally answered again.

Peter sounded exhausted. “Wade. I said — ”

“C’mon. I know it's been a while, but they’re not gonna say anything if you join us.”

“Look, I don’t want anything to do with the freaking _Avengers_. Or SHIELD. Or anyone! They’ve indoctrinated a fresh batch of kids into keeping the peace, maintaining an enhanced-reliant police state, yadda yadda yadda. They do _not_ need me.”

“It’ll be fun! Thursday night! With the guys! And Clint.”

“I got a lot of stuff to do.”

“Like hell you do.”

“Yeah. Like hell I do — I mean, no! No, no, NO! I have to keep tabs on that new Fisk hire, I do my grocery shopping on Thursdays, I — ”

“I’m gonna kill someone if you don’t come,” said Deadpool suddenly.

“...You think I believe that after, what, ten plus years now of you staying clean?”

“I’m really gonna do it, Petey. Honest to God, cross my heart. I just can’t control my natural murderous urges if you’re not there to stop me.”

“Right. And I’m Doctor Doom. If you don’t mind, I’m gonna go back to sleep.”

“It’ll be on your head if a smuggler gets decapitated by accident. Haha, get it, head? Decapitated? Anyway, I might even blow up the target location without Spider-Man’s influence. Think of those poor, poor weapons peddlers! They have families!”

“Ha ha, very funny. Tell me all about it when you get back. I wanna hear every gory detail of Mook Number Twenty’s disembowelment. Now _stop bothering me."_ The phone line beeped and went dead. Wade redialed ten more times, but no one picked up. He guessed that Peter had anticipated the call spam and turned his phone's notifications to silent.

This would not do. Wade had to resort to drastic measures.

* * *

* * *

On Thursday afternoon, Peter woke up in his apartment to the sight of Wade’s fully masked face six inches from his own.

“That’s an interesting position you sleep in, Pete. I heard sleeping in the fetal position means you’re boring and sleeping on your stomach means you’re a freak, but I don’t know what sleeping with your ass stuck up in the air might mean.”

Peter didn’t even startle.

“Why’reyouhere,” he mumbled, the side of his cheek still planted firmly in his pillow, which was completely flat, yellowed, and lacking a pillow case. Probably another charm point Mary Jane worried over in her Am I The Asshole thread.

“We had a date! Remember?”

Peter gave Wade as hard a look as he could manage with his face squished and his eyes still blurry with sleep. “Don’t recall anything’f th’sort.”

“An A-Team playdate! Just us veterans, no kids! C’mon. Get up.”

“No. Hf fun.”

“Peteeeeeeyyy! [Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/32046-lolita-light-of-my-life-fire-of-my-loins-my) Sweetheart. Pumpkin. Honeybuns! Get the fuck up or else I will commit a massacre the likes of which you’ve never seen three point zero hours from now, so help me God, these streets are just gonna be raining with spleens and chopped liver, and maybe men. You’re gonna be so sad you didn’t stop me. Just crushed.”

“‘Kay,” said Peter. He turned his head so that he was back to being face down on the pillow, as he had been when he was sleeping.

Wade leaned in closer so now that he was three inches away from Peter's head. He could see the light from the window reflecting off singular strands of grey hair.

“Here's a secret," he whispered conspiratorially into Peter's ear. "I've been infiltrating the Avengers for years, just to pull off my nefarious plot to level New York City. Everything's getting blown to smithereens today, BTW. And I mean everything. Say goodbye to Russ & Daughters and dollar slices forever. That is, if I don’t have a sexy, spandexed babysitter watching me...”

He was met with utter silence, Peter’s lifted tuchus a towering, sweatpants-clad Mt. Everest of quiet desolation.

Wade tried again. “I saw your browser history. I’m sure all of New York City would be thrilled to learn that their friendly neighborhood Spider-Man pirates National Geographic documentaries. Off Russian sites. What kind of unpatriotic monster does that?”

Still, he received no response.

That was the last straw.

“I have that one plush of yours and I’m gonna fuck it.”

Peter whipped his head up so fast that he struck Wade in the face and toppled him to the floor.

“Christ, Wade! What are you, twelve?”

He remained lying on the ground, but lifted his head up to level a serious stare at Peter. “Yeah. Twelve inches. And Pookie’s gonna get _all_ of that backdoors if you don’t get your sad ass off that mattress.”

The plush in jeopardy was a stuffed bear with the button eyes removed and tiny replicas of Spider-Man’s eye lenses taped on. It was a gift from Mary Jane during high school. Back when Wade had visited the married couple’s Manhattan shoebox, the plush had sat proudly on a bookcase, next to a matching bear with strings of red yarn sewed onto its head (by Peter, who was the seamster of the two).

In Peter’s current hovel, the Spider-bear had sat collecting dust in an unpacked box. He’d paid zero attention to it as it rotted away in its cardboard confines, but now that the possibility that Wade had it arose, he was suddenly bothered.

“Don’t you dare.”

“I’ve got a long, long laundry list of things I want to do to that sweet, stuffed keister, and I’ll be sure to send you a video of me checking off every single box.”

“Okay, okay! I’m up, I’m up,” Peter grumbled, rising. “And I've seen your dick more times than anyone should ever be subjected to. You're not twelve inches."

 _Not only seen it, but felt it too. Winky face,_ thought Wade.

"Oh yeah? How do you know that dick enhancement isn't part and parcel of the current A-Team health insurance package?" He sat down at the edge of the mattress and watched Peter gingerly pad over to a crumpled red and blue pile on the floor.

Peter looked over his shoulder and gave a wry smile. "Would Iron Man really let anyone have a dick bigger than his own?"

"Touché."

"You don't need enhancements anyway." Peter started shucking his sweatpants and white tank top, tossing them into the floor. He was naturally lacking in body hair and had twinkishly smooth legs. Weren't spiders supposed to have hairs all over their bodies and that's how they stuck to surfaces? He had gone on an arachnid Wikipedia page bingefest back in the days he really wanted to impress Spider-Man, but his memory of the spider hair fact was fuzzy at best.

Anyway, it occurred to him that Spider-Man had said something that could be construed as flirty. Since their rooftop hand holding, nothing had happened and they had gone back to the undesirable status quo of Wade thirsting himself silly and Peter acting like he hadn't admitted anything.

Here Peter was, offering a lifeline by commenting on Wade's dick.

So he pounced.

"Need what?" Wade asked innocently.

"Nope. That's your single ego stroking for the day. Come back tomorrow if you want another one." The Spider-Man costume was halfway up Peter's back now.

"Aw. If you won't stroke my ego, I'm gonna have to do it myself. Hard and fast."

"Can we not do this before I've had coffee?"

Peter, now fully suited save for his mask, padded over to the kitchen. He put on rectangular, thick-rimmed reading glasses he probably bought at Duane Reade and dumped coffee grounds into his machine, squinting down at a smartphone all the while. He closed the lid and pressed a button. The machine whistled to life, coffee painstakingly dripping into the fogged carafe as if the liquid was being wrung out from a towel.

Mary Jane clearly got the Keurig in the divorce.

"When's the gig?" Peter asked, his eyes still on his smartphone.

"Ehh, in three hours. Thought you didn't want to come." Wade leaned back on the mattress.

Peter leveled a stare at him through the crappy drugstore glasses slipping down his nose. "Then why'd you wake me up?"

"I wanted a goodbye kiss? Between bros?"

"You've got to stop the bros thing, bud. At this point, you're like a fungus, an [entomopathogenic](https://www.uksafari.com/curse_of_the_zombie_spiders.htm#:~:text=It's%20an%20entomopathogenic%20fungus%2C%20which,rapidly%20infect%20other%20spiders%20nearby.) one, that I can't remove."

"I _have_ been told I resemble a fungus. An alluring one, but still. It's very hurtful."

"Haha, sure. Tiny violins."

Peter pressed a button on the coffee machine to stop the dripping, and poured the liquid from the carafe into a very shiny, brand new I ♡ NY mug. He stared morosely into the black depths of the coffee for a moment, then in one fell swoop, dumped the entire boiling hot contents of the cup down his gullet.

Wade arranged himself on the mattress to gaze at the ceiling. Was that a dried pepperoni stuck up there? God.

He was laying his head on Peter's yellow pillow, staring at crusted foodstuff on the ceiling, surrounded by dusty boxes Peter still hadn't unpacked since he'd moved back to Queens several months ago. What a fascinating, swirling galaxy of a man. He wanted to suck his dick so bad.

Peter was still at the coffee machine and had made himself a second mugful. Wade let his eyes drift from the expanse of the ceiling to his friend's backside, and visually roamed the hills and valleys of every inch in sweet, sweet daylight. They usually saw each other in the darkness of night, where Wade couldn't get as much of a view.

Then he rolled over and buried his face into the pillow, scenting it until his nasal passageways were branded with Peter's musk.

Which reminded him that he needed to reply to gilfybabe56 when he got back from the mission and could tend to his SeekingArrangement.com account again. Discuss the terms for his Bea Arthur roleplay fantasies, which would definitely distract him from other dead end matters. Or so he'd hoped.

"Whatcha doin', DP?" drifted Peter's voice from above him. "You dragged me out of bed just to monopolize snoozing for yourself?"

Wade turned over and stared into Peter's bespectacled, crow's feet lined eyes.

He hoped the lines would grow further and further, until they looked like cracks in a desert, and that he'd be around to watch it happen.

* * *

* * *

“Is a jet really necessary?” complained Spider-Man. “The target location is barely outside of the city. We could’ve just taken a car, or [Amtrak](https://www.amtrak.com/stations/yny), or I don’t know, something that isn’t a misuse of perfectly good funds that could’ve gone towards heating or a leaking roof somewhere.”

“It’s nice to see you again, Spider-Man, but you’ve been out of the game for a while,” said Black Widow, who was gazing ahead in the cockpit. She did not look a day over thirty. “Being on the ground is a far higher risk than being in the air, where traffic and the chance of putting civilians in peril is virtually non-existent.”

“Oh, I forget. You guys don’t do the secret identities thing, so you can’t just go on the bus and not get mobbed. Right.”

“I’d be up for public transport,” said Deadpool. “Love greeting my fellow New Yorkers and getting told to go fuck myself. It’s my favorite part of the day.”

“That’s because you actually try to make small talk," said Spider-Man. "Quickest way to out yourself as a transplant."

“Are you saying I'm not a real New Yorker? You’re so elitist, Spidey. I so am a real New Yorker. Ninety percent of this city’s from another country or planet or Bumblefuck, Midwestistan anyway. Right, Clint?”

Clint Barton made up the last member of their four man team. He raised his eyebrow in acknowledgement. “Right. And Canada is just a colder knock-off of America.”

“That is the most disgustingly untrue statement I have ever heard,” said Deadpool with no heat. He turned back to Spider-Man. “Besides, if Staten Island is New York City’s asshole, then Queens is the perineum. You’re not real New York. You’re just where [Kevin James](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_King_of_Queens) and [the Nanny](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Nanny) live.”

“I can’t believe I have to listen to this. Don’t you ever come near Queens or breathe its fresh air ever again.”

“Donchu evah come neah Queens aw breathe its fresh air evah again,” mimicked Deadpool in his approximation of a squeaky [Fran Drescher voice](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fran_Drescher). Spider-Man’s offense radiated throughout his entire being.

“That’s not — we do NOT sound like that!”

“Yes you do. To real English speakers, like yours truly. Color is spelled with a ‘u,’ by the way. Now bat your eyelashes and say, ‘[Oh, Mr. Sheffield](https://youtu.be/lYtOUlnIMMU).’”

“I am becoming physically ill from this conversation,” groaned Spider-Man.

“You missed out on so much,” said Clint. _Yeah, you did!_ Black Widow’s voice trailed distantly from the cockpit.

“Look, pal, I have no regrets whatsoever. About having a life _and_ about disdaining what is essentially a superhero megacorporation,” Spider-Man said airily.

“I had those thoughts bouncing around my head, back when… Well,” said Clint. He gestured vaguely towards his ears, then leaned over as far as he could with the safety belt strapping him to his seat, and folded his fingers over his knees. “But you know what? I’m not superhuman like you guys. I can’t protect myself forever. I can’t even go on any mission classified above local threat anymore. Once my eyesight starts going, it’s over. A guy needs to start thinking about late life security at my age.”

“He’s already picking out a retirement home,” said Deadpool. “In his 50’s. Actually, I think I qualify for that one [Dutch town](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hogewey) for seniors with dementia as is. Wanna put in our reservations together, Webs?”

“So that’s why onboarding for this mission was so easy even though I’d ghosted for years and didn’t know jack about current protocols. It’s just the older guys being put out to pasture, huh?” Spider-Man put his head in his hands.

“Nah, Clint’s the only one with mission clearance restrictions here. Me and Nat still go at the hard shit, the international conspiracies and galactic-level threats, all the time,” said Deadpool. He rubbed his chin. “Y’know, with your induction into the Avengers as a teen, the precedent was set, and now they’re just pulling them in younger and younger, increasing the turnover rate. In a way, you set the groundwork for poor Clint here becoming even more irrelevant than he already was in every single Marvel ensemble movie. Isn’t that awesome, Spidey?”

Clint gave him the middle finger. He threw a pressing-web-shooters-like gesture up in a silent ILY back.

“No, it’s not awesome. Not awesome at all. Really not awesome.” Spider-Man threw up his hands. “If you hadn’t __blackmailed__ me with plushie assault into tagging along, this business all sounds like nothing I would want to be a part of. I thought you of all people would’ve felt the same."

“Probably!” Deadpool said cheerfully. He beamed. “But you were the one who introduced me to the A-Team. You changed me.”

Spider-Man said nothing as Black Widow announced their landing.


	3. Spidey-Spotting, Now Available On Google Play

Outfitted with anti-grav thrusters and state-of-the-art silencers, the jet being loud was not a concern. However, due to the target location being nestled within a concrete jungle industrial area, there was no optimal place to park and hide an aircraft. It was like looking for parking, metered or garage, in Midtown. 

Black Widow was an old pro at landing, but they still had to disembark on a rooftop ten blocks from the location they’d be staking out. She pressed a button on her wristband that cloaked the jet in light-refractors. The four of them stepped out into the cool winter-spring air, the fat sun sinking below the horizon and silhouetting them in black.

“Would you look at that. There's a bus stop just five blocks away from where we're going,” Spider-Man said flatly. 

“Can it,” said Widow. She launched into a somersault off the roof they parked the jet on. Clint was less graceful, just straight up parkouring off the ledge. Deadpool jumped onto Spider-Man’s back without a beat, and they followed with lazy arcs of webbing through the air.

“Still haven’t seen enough comments on the internet about [this](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/36/b7/52/36b7524580891fa7d434627947648c2e.jpg),” said Deadpool into the fabric outline of Spider-Man’s ear, his arms clamped tightly around the other’s neck. “I’m sad.”

“Reading online comments about yourself never leads to anything good,” said Spider-Man. He let them free-fall for a moment, then _thwipped_ onto the next rooftop, leaving Black Widow and Clint, who had head starts, in the dust.

“But the internet has some of the _best_ ideas, Webs. You ever read that one story? The one that started out as an AU of you being evil but had the names changed after being published to avoid giving you any money? It was really hot.”

“No. I don’t read anything sexy about myself. Just all the things that say I’m a failure and that I must’ve died and been replaced by a clone because I got fat.”

“You should try it. Or maybe read sexy internet theories about me, if that makes you feel better. I'm really into the ones claiming I'm secretly Cthulhu. Love me some tentacles.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Spider-Man absent-mindedly. “Add it to my rotation of media. Tentacles, after seahorses. Alphabetical. I like it.”

“Teeeentacles,” Deadpool whispered, his breath tickling the other’s earlobe in what he hoped was a manner half sexy and half stupid. Spider-Man laughed, voice low and warm. 

He jumped off the end of his latest web’s arc, effortlessly segueing into a crouch on a dusty roof overlooking the target location. Deadpool was still clinging onto him like a koala on a eucalyptus tree. 

“This looks like a pretty good spot to scope things out and formulate a plan,” said Spider-Man. “Let’s see what the slowpokes think when they get here.” 

Deadpool disembarked from the Spidey Express, then stretched like a cat. “Aye.”

Several moments later, Black Widow somersaulted in a suspiciously showy manner next to them, rubbing her evergreen athleticism in their faces. It took thirty seconds more for Clint to join. 

They distributed communication devices between them, then decided that they would split up. 

As a seasoned sharpshooter and another seasoned sharpshooter with the worst stealth stats on the team, Clint and Deadpool would stay on a remote rooftop and keep watch. The spider duo would sneak into the target location, a cut-and-dry two story warehouse with windows only located right below the roof. 

They had received a tip-off that old Stark technology had been pawned off onto the black market and reappropriated into instruments of murder (“Stealing Stark tech. [Really brings me back](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hawkeye_\(Clint_Barton\)#Fictional_character_biography),” Clint said with a wink at Black Widow). The weapons would be making their way up here, in an industrial wasteland in Yonkers, then redistributed all over the city. There was a team of smugglers waiting inside to receive the shipment, although standard evening traffic meant that the vehicle containing the goods had an indefinite time window before arriving. 

A smuggling route often had various checkpoints so that the middlemen only knew the identities of the other middlemen before them and not those of the buyer or the seller. In such a method, the chance of compromising the masterminds was greatly lessened, but resources had to be spread thinner across all the checkpoints. 

The derelict Yonkers warehouse facility was the penultimate stop in the route. Previous research indicated that the building was owned by a Value Insurance Inc., which could not be more obvious of a dummy corporation name. 

The objective was to suss out information regarding the stolen Stark technology, whether through eavesdropping or interrogation, then intercept the incoming weapons cargo. 

As founding Avengers, Black Widow and the former Hawkeye were far above the current mission’s paygrade. Widow was practically here on vacation, and Clint was slowly easing off on crime fighting duties, probably to run off to a farm somewhere and play the banjo for the rest of his days. Set up booths at the local fair and laugh at kids who sucked at hitting the balloons. Or something. It was only conjecture. 

Anyway, Deadpool considered himself a salaried contractor. He was bound to the Avengers and SHIELD under certain conditions (minimizing lethality, for one), but otherwise floated around, taking on whatever tasks he pleased. New York City was the most exciting place to be so he had invested in prime real estate here and considered it his primary base of operations for the last decade or so. The food was good, the alien invasions every other week made life interesting, and he had buddies.

People who willingly spent their free time with him without getting paid.

If Deadpool was living as a comfortable contractor, and Black Widow and Clint senior board members, then Spider-Man was a sad and penniless freelancer, riffling through bottom-of-the-barrel crimes to deal with. The police radio was practically his superhero Craigslist. 

Spidey had been working alone or with Deadpool for so long. Could he really handle working with others again? The two of them had natural rapport, but as far as Deadpool knew, Spider-Man had not spoken to any other major crime fighter in years. It had started around the time he’d gotten married. Combined with the pressure for him to unmask as part of the Avengers, he withdrew into isolation.

He just. 

Left.

“Hey, Deadpool. Earth to Deadpool. You with us?” Clint snapped his fingers in front of Deadpool’s face.

“I’m good,” said Deadpool. It just occurred to him voices had been crackling into his ear. 

"Right,” said Clint. He turned back to watching the warehouse with his binoculars, then spoke measuredly into the comms. “Sorry, he zoned out on us a bit. There’s ten people in there. Two at the main entrance, two at the back, one on the upper walkway, five in the office. No sign of any enhanced. All armed. Standard issue AR-15s. The kind you used to be able to find at [Wal-Mart](https://gunsandamerica.org/story/19/09/03/walmart-will-no-longer-sell-ammo-for-handguns-and-the-ar-15/)." 

"You get your weapons at Wal-Mart too? I'm a huge fan of their explosives section myself," said Deadpool.

"The key phrase here is _used to_." Clint snorted. 

"Never been more grateful that [I've yet to step foot there](https://www.npr.org/2011/02/04/133483848/new-york-city-officials-to-walmart-keep-out)," commented Spider-Man over the radio.

"So sheltered." Deadpool tsked. "You have to see the rest of the continent some time, Webs. Go on a road trip. Experience Wal-Marts. Krogers. Giant twine balls."

"No thanks. Exploring under my couch sounds more appealing."

"Aww! Must be the scientist in you, looking for new signs of life."

"I saw an alien at my place recently, lemme tell ya, he's real enthusiastic about probing, and get this, Golden Girls — "

"One loudmouth is barely tolerable. Two is just too many," said Black Widow. "We should do some culling. I suggest the one who doesn't regenerate."

"Only one? Sounds like you've gone soft," said Clint amusedly. 

"Keep talking and I'll amend it to three." Widow snorted audibly through the radio. "Alright, Spider-Man and I have located a hatch on the roof top. It's looking like our best way in. What's the visual on the walkway hostile in relation to our current position?"

"Northeast end, far opposite to your current position," said Clint.

The walkway near the roof was shaped in a rectangle, perfectly following the perimeter of the building, and was the only separation between the open floor and the high ceiling. The latch Spider-Man and Black Widow were at led to a ladder at one of the walkway corners. Operationally, the ladder was for doing maintenance work on the fan unit or cables on the roof. According to Clint’s information, the single person patrolling the walkway would be directly facing the latch, albeit from about a hundred feet away.

“This latch is gonna make a ton of noise. I’ll see if the windows can be opened from the outside, then dispatch that guy and let Widow in,” came Spider-Man’s voice over the comms. Through Deadpool’s binoculars, he saw a pin-cushion sized Spidey crawl down from the roof and onto a window right below it. The windows were continuous around the perimeter of the warehouse, Spider-Man silently padding along them, until he went around a glass corner and out of sight, his presence unable to be registered even by the binoculars’ infrared mode.

“How are we doing there? Want me to blow something up? I need something to do, and these fancy heat detection ‘noculars don’t let me see any of the good stuff. My feet are falling asleep. The new Fifty Shades flick is out. Clint’s getting closer and closer to needing Rogaine.” 

“Relax, DP, I’m just trying to open the window,” came Spider-Man’s voice in a hurried whisper over the comms. “Honestly, do we even need this many people? Why’d I even come — ah. There we go. Hey there. I know we’ve only just met, but — ”

There was silence. Deadpool assumed that Spider-Man had found the man guarding the walkway and the roof hatch. He imagined that Spider-Man had seamlessly planted his palms on the window sill, extended his legs, and put the goon out of commission with a good ol’ thigh chokehold. It gave him something to think about, when this mission was turning out Fisher-Price levels of kiddy so far. Intern-level crime. Snooze. 

“Didja get him?” asked Deadpool. He was only greeted by radio silence. Strange. In his binoculars’ regular mode, he could see Black Widow and Spider-Man’s tiny blackened silhouettes in the walkway moving about.

Then they disappeared.

“Guys? Fellas? Dudes and dudettes? Mouseketeers? Anyone there?” Deadpool’s voice reverberated in an echo throughout his own earpiece.

There was only silence. Not even radio static or background noise. Only pure quiet from the other end, and the soft huffs of the lookout pair’s own steady breathing.

“It’s technical,” said Clint.

If something had happened, there was no doubt there would have been some audio indication, such as a shout or sounds of a scuffle. There was none, so it could have only been the sound waves between the communication devices being interfered with. Perhaps a field intercepting radio waves, which was not out of the realm of possibility for a smuggling operation cashing in on Stark Industries cast-offs.

“Maybe we should help them?” suggested Deadpool. 

Clint looked at him incredulously. “You really think Spider-Man and the greatest assassin in the world need help taking care of ten average Joes? Really?” Even so, he picked up his bow from where it had been lying next to him, while keeping his binoculars aloft with one hand.

“Yeah, we get it, you still think she’s hot. Anywho — ” started Deadpool, when Clint suddenly dropped his bow to hold up a ‘shush!’ finger. 

From a middle window, they could see the wisp of Black Widow’s silhouette, coiffed hair in sharp relief against the rest of the gloom. She stood still.

“She gave us an OK sign,” breathed Clint, his sharpshooter’s eyesight perceiving her small movement first. “They’re fine.”

Then Spider-Man’s shadow appeared. It loomed closer and closer to a window, until he crashed straight through it and fell out of the warehouse.

At first, Deadpool had thought that he’d been pushed through by an enemy, and readied himself to provide backup. 

Before Spider-Man could fall into the pavement, he blasted a string of web to a brick building adjacent to the target location. He hoisted himself there, and continued slinging webs onto the next building, further and further into the night, eventually becoming a pinprick, and then nothing at all.

He just.

Left.

“What the fuck,” said Deadpool.

If Spider-Man had left the target location, outside of the radio wave dampening field, then his comm should’ve started working again.

“Hey, Spider-Man! Why the hell would you — ” Clint sounded pissed.

“No time,” Spider-Man said, sounding slightly out of breath. “Tech’s not there. That place — it’s a decoy. I know where it is. I know why it’s going there. I’ll take care of it. _Don’t_ follow me.”

There was a loud crackling noise over the radio, indicating Spider-Man had crushed his comm. 

Clint dropped his binoculars. Then he looked straight into Deadpool’s wide, milky lenses, like he was on The Office.

“This is why we don’t bring people we want to fuck on missions,” he said. “Trust me, I know.”

* * *

* * *

Neither Clint nor Black Widow knew where Spider-Man had gone. But Deadpool knew. Why? Because the mercenary in him never left. It stayed skulking under his skin like his cancer, never being truly satisfied, just kept at bay. His old lack of moral objections and drive to hunt stayed true, especially when it came to a decades-old object of affection.

He had put a tracker on Spider-Man before they’d left for Yonkers. It paid off. 

Deadpool’s phone had a fat little Spider-Man icon that led to his Spidey-Spotting app. It was completely different from the one publicly available on the Apple Store, and was for his perusal only. It followed any personal trackers on Spider-Man he may have placed, and cross-checked social media and search engine information in real time to project a map of where Spidey might appear. 

He actually didn’t place trackers on Spider-Man very often, maybe once every few years, but the app was still an excellent precaution in case Spidey ever got himself into trouble. He was strong and resilient and brave so he didn’t really need it.

But he could still die. 

And Spider-Man dying? That just didn’t sit right with Deadpool. 

In his heart, he knew Peter wasn’t even pure and incorruptible enough anymore to justify those feelings. Peter was a douchebag who knew Wade had loved him for years and was too much of a coward to let him down. He drove everyone away except for his ex-wife, until she too couldn’t take the entire burden of his secondary life on her shoulders and left. If Wade was normal, he would’ve left as well. He had tried so hard to go above and beyond for Spider-Man, and he didn’t know why loving him was the last fault he couldn’t shake off.

But that was fine.

If Deadpool couldn’t leave, then he would do everything in his power possible to prevent Spider-Man from dying. Even if it was invasive, awful, and maybe maimed a few civilians here and there. 

Even if it meant Spider-Man would stop talking to him forever.

At first, Deadpool had downloaded the Spidey-Spotting app that was available from the Google and iTunes App Stores. It sucked ass. He had tried it on multiple Android and Apple phones before finally deleting every instance. All the app did was cough up day old information on Spider-Man’s whereabouts and display a feed of Daily Bugle articles that claimed he had been spotted doing cocaine with heiresses. The sheer ineptitude of an app with 800,000+ downloads really pissed Deadpool off, so he gave it a one star rating and paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to mouth-breathing nerds on [UpWork](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Upwork) for his own privately developed, much more accurate app. 

That app had gotten him to Spidey in time when he broke his back, so it was worth it, he thought.

Clint had been left behind to survey the warehouse situation and determine if Spider-Man’s claims about it being a decoy was true. With Spider-Man’s loud crash out the window, everyone in the target location had been alerted to the team’s presence. There was no way Black Widow could continue to diffuse the situation with stealth. Deadpool knew without a doubt that she and Clint could easily dispatch all paltry ten of the gunmen in that warehouse, and so, he had completely abandoned standard Avengers protocol to find out what had spooked Spider-Man into running off.

He was driving a Volkswagen Beetle he had hotwired, looking down at his phone every few minutes. The traffic in the Bronx’s Major Deegan Expressway was always a shit show, and this just happened to be the absolute worst time for it to be a particularly big shit show. The adorable little Spider-Man icon on his screen was already moving incrementally down the Upper West Side. 

Spider-Man was most likely not going back to his apartment. Other than that, Deadpool had absolutely no idea where was going.

During traffic, he’d tried calling Spider-Man’s phone. Naturally, all his calls went to voicemail. His _where u going???????????????_ text message was also left unanswered. 

As the Volkswagen which did not belong to him inched further and further along the expressway, Spidey’s icon crawled slowly down Harlem.

Deadpool slammed the car horn and rolled his window down to throw a middle finger at a van that had just cut in front of him from the left lane. 

“Fuck you too,” he heard from somewhere behind him.

“Wasn’t for you, buddy! Love you!” he yelled back. Then he rolled his window back up because it was cold. 

Maybe some sick jams would make the traffic blues go by faster. He turned the radio on to Z100. 

It was playing Ed Sheeran’s Shape of You. 

God, he suffered so much for Spidey. If only he hadn’t left his teleportation belt at home because he’d thought this mission would be easy. He silently shook his fist at his own hubris. 

* * *

* * *

Deadpool had leaned his head against Spider-Man’s shoulder and whined, “This is sooooooo boring! I’m bored!” in his first tag along with the Avengers. 

In the end, even though Spider-Man had referred him to North America’s most prominent crime fighting organization with a more glowing recommendation than he deserved, he had been rejected.

The only way he had gotten to accompany them was showing up late and unannounced, like the cool kids did. 

He had popped out of a jeep only to find a giant superhero huddle circle in the middle of Kansas. A subterranean HYDRA facility had been identified there, and yet the Avengers seemed paralyzed. 

There had been plenty of opportunities to strike, but they didn’t. 

Instead, they had continued to stake out the structure from hundreds of feet away, well hidden from the scrutiny of any guards or patrol. Iron Man had secluded himself away somewhere from the rest of the team, but still remained in their vicinity. He had already gotten Deadpool’s verbal flogging out of the way, and spent his time pacing around and yammering on and on to his people on the phone about _international protocols_ and _cross-state legal consequences_ and other such things Deadpool had never worried about a day in his life.

“Where’s the avenging? That implies stuff going down! Explosions! Maiming! Sickos getting sent to meet their maker! That sort of thing!” Deadpool sighed. Then his voice turned darker. “They do know that people might be dying in that basement every moment we sit around here playing pattycake, right?” 

In his periphery, he saw Spider-Man’s head droop a little lower. 

“I know. I can’t do anything about it,” whispered Spider-Man. Then in an even smaller voice, he said, “I hate it.”

“We should Rambo the fuck up and go in ourselves.” 

“You’ve seen the intel. Our chances don’t look good. That’s why the whole squad is here. Look, I want to get people out as badly as you do, Deadpool.” He stared into the ground, tracing circles in the dirt. “But we can’t help anyone if we get zapped into mush straight away.”

“Is your healing factor really that bad, Webs? I’ve seen you recover from a bent nose in seconds. Not S-tier like mine, but like, maybe B? B+?”

Spider-Man turned his head a little to look down at Deadpool, who was still resting on his shoulder. “I don’t know my blood type.”

“Tiers! Like ranking!” 

“Sorry. Dumb joke.”

Deadpool narrowed his eyes. “Were you really joking, though?”

“I’m doing my masters in biochem! You really think I wouldn’t know what blood types there are?”

“I don’t know,” said Deadpool. “When I said I was a big Mary Jane fan before the army, you thought I was talking about an actual chick named Mary Jane.”

“I never got the chance to enjoy weed or alcohol,” said Spider-Man. “They just... don’t do anything. How would I know?”

“Damn. What the hell are you gonna do when you get sad, Spidey? Not the normal, ice cream-eating kind of sad, but the gaping emptiness kind of sad? You can’t even kill yourself.”

“I just go out, kick butt, and try really, really hard not to think about it.” The fabric on Spider-Man’s brow area crinkled. “Wait, you kill yourself?”

“That and porn. Porn helps,” said Deadpool. “I don’t know if you’ve seen this thing called ‘hentai,’ but it might rock your little arachnid world.”

He could swear that Spider-Man somehow conveyed the expression of eye-rolling through his mask. “I stopped being a teenager _four_ years ago, DP. I know what hentai is.”

Suddenly, someone cleared their throat, accompanied by the small roar of thrusters.

“Sorry to break up your scintillating conversation, fellas,” said Iron Man, floating above them, not sounding sorry at all. “But.” 

Deadpool jumped up like a rocket and squealed in a very undignified manner. “Are we finally doing the thing?”

“No, you’re not doing the thing. You’re not doing anything, because I _just_ cleared everything up with SHIELD, the FBI, the CIA, and god-knows-how-many law firms. You’d cause us more legal and PR headaches than you’re worth, even _if_ Spider-Man thinks you’re the bee’s knees. Understand?”

“Is it because I’m ugly?” said Deadpool. “It’s because I’m ugly, isn’t it. You just don’t want me bringing down the average hotness of the team. I bet even Spidey’s cute. He probably looks like some Tobey Maguire-esque twink god under there.”

“Mmm, no. It’s more the being trigger-happy, the tendency to disregard instructions, the propensity for blowing up valuable evidence, the wanton maiming of those you don’t like, and maybe, just maybe, the _killing for money_ thing you have going on?” 

“So you’re — ”

“No,” said Iron Man.

“Y — ”

“No. Nope. Don’t even try,” said Iron Man, his fingers moving up and down in a blah-blah-blah motion. “And also, for posterity: no.” He turned around swiftly, floating towards the other Avengers who had been staking out a bit further away. 

Spider-Man stared after him, then slowly turned his head to stare back at his companion.

“So. This the guy you want to impress, Spidey?” Deadpool pretended to look at his nails.

Spider-Man frowned, the fabric bunching up between his brows. “I mean… Kind of? I don’t know, bud. The Avengers are good for grad school credit?” He scratched the back of his neck. “He’s being kinda harsh. Sorry.”

“He just said no, he didn’t kill me. So it’s cool. All good in the hood. All neener in the wiener,” said Deadpool. He slung an arm around Spider-Man and swiveled him towards the direction where the other Avengers were suiting up. “Let’s go.”

* * *

* * *

The tiny circular Spidey icon had stopped moving somewhere at the junction of W 38th St and 5th Ave. Wade was still in his Volkswagen, now dying in Manhattan traffic instead of Bronx traffic. It was a different type of hell. On the Bronx’s Major Deegan Expressway, buildup was often the result of one single car accident causing a butterfly effect that doomed everyone for the next twenty miles to an agonizing, snail’s pace journey. Manhattan was local, but taxis stopping every block to pick up pedestrians, jaywalkers, random parades, unfixed potholes, aliens, evil molemen, and ten thousand other things could be piling up at any moment to form a giant traffic clusterfuck that made driving slower than walking.

A small earthquake had just rumbled throughout Manhattan a minute ago, which was worsening traffic second by second. Were earthquakes even supposed to happen here? This was bullshit.

Deadpool considered running over the lady in five inch heels in front of him scrambling to get to the other side of the street as the light turned green, but Spidey wouldn’t do that, or at least the adorable wide-eyed version who acted as the affronted angel on his shoulder wouldn’t, so he didn’t either. The angel Spidey was usually tied up and being roasted on a spit over an open fire by the five Deadpools with pitchforks dancing around him but this time, real Spidey was acting the fool, and he had to be the reasonable one. 

♪𝅘𝅥𝅰 _[Feel the rain on your skin, no one else can feel it for you, only you can let it in](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b7k0a5hYnSI) _ 𝅘𝅥𝅰 suddenly blared out from his phone and blanked the Spidey-Spotting app out. Black Widow was calling.

He picked up his phone and pressed the green phone icon to accept the call.

“We interrogated the suspects at the Yonkers location,” said Black Widow crisply. “They said they were paid to stay there and receive a shipment of black market insulin. The Stark tech is probably in a location undisclosed to them. You’re going after Spider-Man, I presume?”

“Yup.”

“Where is he?”

“Manhattan. Midtown. Fisk Tower.”

“Has he responded to you at all?”

“Nope.”

There was a huff that betrayed Black Widow’s annoyance. He imagined her pinching her nose bridge, even though she’d seen all sorts of shit and probably just considered this matter old gum under her soles at best. “Can I leave it to you?”

“You bet! Ain’t no thang. Now shoo. Go to your zumba class.”

“It’s a [Proenza Schouler](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Proenza_Schouler) fitting. But thanks.”

The call ended, black screen receding into the Spidey-Spotting interface again, the circular Spidey icon still ominously hanging over Fisk Tower. 

The closer and closer he got to Midtown, from 14th street to 59th street, the worse the traffic got. He’d even kept his route in the far west side to avoid the worst congestion, but it was no use. At around 48th and 8th, he figured _fuck it_ , slammed the door on the Volkswagen, and made a mad dash towards Fisk Tower. Spidey had told him all about how the Krebs cycle was constantly being restarted by the new cells that appeared in his body way back when. He’d tuned out whenever Spider-Man got his nerd on, but the gist of it was: running ten blocks and three avenues straight was no biggie.

Just to be an asshole, he had left the Beetle’s car window open and the radio blaring Kendrick Lamar and The Weeknd’s [Pray For Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5xERXE7pxI&ab_channel=KendrickLamarVEVO).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part isn't as edited as the parts previous because I don't particularly enjoy writing plot or non-Spider-Verse + Deadpool people. As it goes on, the editing will probably become more and more non-existent. I'm also losing steam to write tbh because of a potpourri of mental health issues and tepid fic reception, but this is around 85% finished right now so I'll post the rest of whatever I have in chunks and leave it for the birds if necessary, lol. 
> 
> I really appreciate all comments that are left, thanks for soldiering through 20k+ words and confusing time jumps!


	4. Groundhog Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for nonsensical, handwave-y comic book science, leaps of logic, and loose plot threads.

Deadpool was not a card carrying employee of Fisk Tower, so he had to break in by grappling up to an unoccupied office floor and pounding in the glass window until an opening was made. As he dusted the glass off his suit and ignored the stinging cuts all over, he ruminated on where the hell in the building Spider-Man might be.

Spider-Man liked vents. So much so that evil megacorporations should probably start putting tacks in theirs, in the same way stores used spikes to keep pigeons from roosting on their signs. Clearly, these corporations just didn’t have the technology to engineer such genius, because they were too busy working on easier projects like splicing DNA to create artificial mutants and building AI that would eventually attempt world domination. Spidey Spikes would remain an invention for the next century, perhaps. 

The floor plan of Fisk Tower was widely available, and every inch of space publicly recorded was an office, gym, dining area, conference room, party hall, or exorbitantly large penthouse.

Basements were usually unregulated — Deadpool himself was leasing the basement of several of his own properties to undesirables. Weasel might have taken up permanent residence in one of them without him noticing? He would have to check in on that, do some fumigating, make sure the asshole didn’t get too comfortable. Anyway, the basement was always location número uno for where shady business might be going down.

Ergo, Spidey was probably in a vent in the basement somewhere! Dr. Strange’s other, sexier British role could eat his heart out.

Deadpool picked up a giant handful of Lindt chocolates in a jar that was at the receptionist’s table nearby, unwrapped them, jammed them in one unholy chocolatey mass into his mouth, and headed for the elevator. He pressed the button for the lobby, then remembered that there probably wouldn’t be an easy access for the basement from the building. After all, no one was supposed to know about it. 

He decided to try his luck. When the elevator dinged and opened, he went inside to scan the columns of buttons to see if he was super lucky and there was actually an easy peasy B1 button for him to press. 

Not only was there no basement level button, but the elevator needed an ID card to even be operated. He would have to beat up an employee for an ID card and then don a disguise. He also considered just grappling down the elevator shaft, but he’d probably get crushed before he got anywhere. In his experience, the best bet underground was to find a way in through the subway. The MTA tunnels were practically maze-like in their complexity, with additional paths carved in by shady operations or people taking refuge there. As a reliable method of getting to the basement, it was just as annoying as becoming D. Pool, Fisk Corporate Drone, ID#69696969. He was also terrible at pulling off disguises, no matter how sexy he looked in them, and would probably be found out. Putting the whole building on alert would be very bad for any Spideys stealthily skulking around.

Subway it was, then. 

The nearest stop was the 42nd St. Bryant Park location. He had to scale back down several flights of the building and pant his way to the station, jogging down several flights of stairs into the depths. Several curses were flung his way as he jumped the turn stiles and shoved through other New Yorkers to get to the train platforms, but he didn’t care. The Spidey icon on his phone remained locked in the same address, like a beacon. His princess was in another castle, and by god, he’d tumble down onto the piss-stained train tracks and fight [pizza rats](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPXUG8q4jKU&ab_channel=MattLittle) to get there.

The B, D, F, and 7 tracks, and their uptown and downtown directions offered eight mysterious paths to his desired location. He jumped down the 7 to Hudson Yards track, because 7 was a lucky number and no one would be going to Hudson Yards in the evening. There would probably be a train on that track around once per hour, so the chance of him inadvertently getting smashed into a pulp was low. He might as well have been jogging lazily through Central Park with how empty and peaceful the tunnel was. A Central Park that smelled almost entirely like piss and liquid metallic runoff, that is. Sometimes he heard the chittering of rats in the dark.

He only had to travel around two hundred feet before he spotted a gate embedded into the tunnel’s side. It was labeled with a conveniently phosphorescent “KEEP OUT!” sign and if he had to hazard a guess, was right around where 38th St. would be above ground. He climbed over the gate and walked through a few more grimy tunnels to get to a massive, brightly lit subterranean area.

Bingo.

He crouched, knowing that it’d be easy to be seen in such blinding lighting. The muck of the subway floor gave way to polished, laid granite. He saw a giant glass-paneled control room filled with nerds scanning endless, incomprehensible neon screens of data on their computers, and beyond that, a ballroom-sized area containing a large, cylindrical metal contraption he could not make heads or tails of. It was spinning slowly and emitting a faint fog of light. 

It definitely looked like some sort of doomsday machine that had to be obliterated.

Spider-Man wasn’t here. But the entire situation definitely looked suspicious and Spider-Man-worthy. He had to be hiding somewhere, surveying the situation and waiting for an opportune time to strike. 

Aside from the doomsday machine, the other elephant in the room was a hulking figure clad in black. The man known as Kingpin was looming in front of the scientists, staring out into the bright fog of the machine. A pen was clicking in his massive fist. 

Deadpool scanned all around him for vent systems, which were a wall crawling hero’s best friend. Nerds had to breathe fresh, cool air down here, and so, there had to be vents.

Upon spotting an air vent grater in the ceiling around ten feet from him, he waited for an opportune moment when every single nerd was distracted by their screen, and jumped onto the vent with a well-aimed grappling hook.

It was incredibly dusty. He tried to minimize his coughs so no one could hear, muffling them with light huffs that the most proper Victorian lady would be proud of. Then he crawled, listening for sounds of Spider-Man related movement all the while. He’d subjected himself to Ed Sheeran, and now he risked allergies that he would get over in two seconds. He hoped Spider-Man would be grateful.

He did not find any hints of his target, until the end of his current route ended on top of a seemingly safe position on a scaffold far away from the doomsday-looking machine. He pushed the vent grater out with a soft clank, then dropped himself onto the scaffold.

He was immediately encased by an iron talon grip.

There may have been an undignified scream.

“Not the red pest I was hoping to find,” grunted Green Goblin on top of him. His massive claws tightened, digging further into Deadpool’s body and drawing blood. “Where is your friend?”

“I — don’t — have — a — friend — ”

The claws dug further, ripping headily into his aortas and kidneys. “Liar.”

Deadpool gritted his teeth. “Your guess — is as good as mine.”

Green Goblin’s voice rumbled above him, his large, glowing eyes narrowed. “Then why are you here?”

“I think spelunking — is super cool?”

“Fool,” said Green Goblin. 

Deadpool’s arms were thankfully free, only his abdomen was in the Green Goblin’s clutches. He quickly drew out a bowie knife strapped onto his thigh, and threw it with all his waning might straight at Green Goblin’s left eye.

The shrill screech he heard told him he’d hit his mark.

Flapping wildly about, Green Goblin flung Deadpool into the far distance, the claws withdrawing from his body and leaving massive holes spurting blood in an arc through the air. Deadpool continued to fall in a haze. The ground was a hundred feet below, then eighty, then seventy. Ooh, that landing would sting. A lot.

Then he felt himself jerked forcefully upwards, as if gravity had different plans for him. The all too bright lights receded from his vision and melted into pitch black darkness. He was gingerly fished up further and further, until he was on a cramped, horizontal surface.

“Hey, DP,” said a voice he’d recognize anywhere.

His own voice sounded weak. “Spidey.”

“Told you not to come,” Spider-Man said, a trace of annoyance in his voice. He sighed, and proceeded to pull Deadpool by the scruff deeper and deeper into their current passageway and away from the doomsday machine

“You didn’t give a good reason why!” Deadpool protested.

“It’s the particle collider.” Spider-Man sounded tired, even more so than usual. “I saw it when I got sucked into another universe, weeks ago. The Kingpin there was building one to bring his dead wife and kid over from an alternate dimension. Now ours is building one too.”

“Collider? You mean the machine I saw back there?” 

“Yeah.” Spider-Man stopped dragging him. By then, Deadpool had stopped bleeding, and rubbed his head to clear out any errant thoughts. 

“You okay? Did I hurt you?”

“Nah. So, go on.” Deadpool waved. “What’s gonna happen when he brings his wife and kid over?”

“Eh, nothing big, just dimensions crashing into each other and destroying reality as we know it.”

“How’s that worse than aliens dropping by every other week to enslave the planet?”

“It isn’t,” said Spider-Man. He shrugged. “It’s just personal, ‘cause this time, Kingpin’s not building a collider to bring his wife and kid back. He’s building his collider to wipe out every instance of me.”

Deadpool felt affronted. There were other people who wanted Spidey that bad? He wasn’t special? 

“Why?”

“You missed his evil expositional soliloquy, but he blames his wife's death on me for some reason. Bringing her in from another dimension would kill her, so he's settling for pulling all the Peter Parkers in the multi-verse here at once and killing them instead. I'm betting that after he offs me, he’ll go ham using the collider to remove all instances of anyone else he doesn’t like. Anyway, the Stark tech didn’t go to Yonkers. They came here, because they’re one of the last pieces needed to get the collider up and running. Even Fisk, with all his resources, can’t make those himself. He just doesn’t have the... you know.” Spider-Man tapped his cranium.

“How did you figure Yonkers was a decoy?” asked Deadpool.

“It was way too lightly guarded, way too easy,” said Spider-Man. “When our comms cut off, I knew. They wanted us to distract ourselves in there while ignoring everything going on outside. Also, I saw someone in the warehouse office, and he was an old Fisk guy I’d been tailing. Not a smuggler like your intel said. I’ve been looking into this for weeks, DP. Told you I was gonna trail a new Fisk hire today, and that’s what I should’ve done, not go on your warehouse goose chase.”

“Alright, alright, Spiderino. You’re right. You’re always right.” Deadpool threw up his hands. 

“I’m not saying all this to go, ‘I told you so.’ Like I said, it’s personal. I’ve seen this all play out before. Twice. First with Doc Ock forever ago, and then with the other Kingpin. It’s no big deal to destroy the collider, easier to just sort this out myself instead of getting the Avengers involved. This collider isn’t even as crazy as the version I saw in Miles’ universe. It’s _tiny_. The other one was the size of a football field.” 

“Who’s Miles?” asked Deadpool.

“Don’t you worry about that,” said Spider-Man. “Anyway, just stay quiet. There’s one last piece they need for that collider to work.”

His lenses glowed in the darkness, then narrowed.

“Me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m the beacon needed to pull every version of me towards this universe to collide and wipe each other out. Once the other mes are here, this new collider will do its secondary job and actually try to mush all our atoms together into a singular Peter. And then that’ll kill us all at once. Convenient, huh?”

Deadpool shoved him in the arm. “Then why don’t you just go to Narnia or some other far away place so they can’t find you and never get to carry out their evil plan? Easy peasy.”

“Because I have to see the collider blown to smithereens and never hurt anyone again,” said Spider-Man. “If I don’t show up, Kingpin will keep test firing the damn thing or using it to kill others. Every time the collider fires, a small earthquake blows through the city. Who knows how many people will get displaced?”

To be honest, Deadpool wouldn’t have been too sad if New York City got leveled into dust from repeated particle collider firings. The city was never really his home. To him, it was like Toronto on steroids and with slightly better public transit. Also, it was where most of his Monopoly money was, but that could be earned back easily.

That’s what he told himself, anyway. As long as Spider-Man was fine.

They started crawling deeper into the vent they were in. From a nod that could be seen even in the darkness, Spider-Man wanted Deadpool to follow his lead. They padded through the metal passageway for a minute, light breathing being the only sound between them. Eventually, they happened upon a light emitting through the room below, visible through the floor of the air vent they were in.

Spider-Man moved so that Deadpool could view what was going on through the vent at the same time. 

Below them was a room different from the nerd room or the collider hall. A man with four metallic, tentacle-like appendages lifting himself off the ground was busying himself tapping buttons across a row of massive machines that looked like 1950’s supercomputers. 

Spider-Man dragged his fingers slowly down his mask and moaned. “I swear, I’m living the same damn life every single day.”

“Whatchu talkin’ about, Petey?”

“There was a hot lady version of Doc Ock in the other universe helping Kingpin,” said Spider-Man. “Pretty sure she and Aunt May had something going on there too. I’m almost starting to miss her.”

“Didja hit on her? Sounds like you hit on her.”

“What? No! What makes you think that? Okay, fine, yes, I did, but it was part of a ruse to distract her, so — ”   
Spider-Man stilled as Kingpin’s hulking frame stalked into the room below them.

“How long?” he growled. 

“Spider-Man can’t keep away,” said Doctor Octopus confidently. “You put out that job posting for a highly capable scientist on every corner of the internet like I told you to, yes? He will see it and take the bait. He’ll know there’s something going on.”

“He better,” said Kingpin. “I ain’t waitin’ a moment longer to send that bug bastard to kingdom come.”

Spider-Man put his chin on his hand as if he were bored, looked at Deadpool, then pantomimed eating popcorn out of a bucket. 

“It’ll be ready to fire again in a few minutes,” said Doctor Octopus. “But he has to show up. Not the discount version of him with the swords.”

“I got the Spidey-Spotting app on iTunes,” said Kingpin. “Someone saw him in Times Square forty minutes ago. He’ll be here eventually.” His stare turned hard. “We yeeted that radioactive spider Norman gave us into another dimension, but it ain’t come back. It’s been weeks. How are you so sure this is gonna work?”

“Because I built it,” replied Otto Octavius. “And I’ve done this before. Spider-Man stopped me then, but I’ve had time to make improvements. I’ve made it better. Smaller. Superior.”

Kingpin raised a brow. His stare was hard and his voice carried the edge of a threat. “That better be a 100% guarantee. I’m not a big fan of rebates.”

Doctor Octopus snorted, and turned back to his row of machines.

“I want _all_ the Spider-guys to come crashing into each other and exploding, understood?” Kingpin spread his meaty arms in a circle. “Ka-fuckin’-boom.”

“A bigger collider needs days between firings,” Spider-Man whispered, as if Deadpool had a frame of reference for how fast doomsday machines were supposed to turn on. “But this one’s tiny, and they’ve got Stark arc reactors speeding everything up. The reactors are basically catalysts, cutting down on the reac — ” 

“So you just have to show up right now, and the party gets started,” said Deadpool. He saw the silhouette of Spider-Man’s head nod slowly in the darkness. 

“Yeah,” said Spider-Man. “I’m gonna make my grand entrance soon. Follow me?”

They silently went back in the direction they had come from, where the collider had been. Spider-Man had crawled past Deadpool to take the lead, shoving against his side and letting him feel the silky slide of Spidey’s obliques. 

Soon enough, they were overlooking the scaffolding Green Goblin had caught Deadpool on, as well as the ballroom-sized, blindingly bright area of the particle collider.

Spider-Man stilled. They waited for several seconds, staring at the flapping, leathery wings of Green Goblin at the other end of the expansive room. Then the seconds stretched into a minute.

Then the minute stretched into several minutes.

“You gonna make a move, Spidey?” asked Deadpool into the shadowy silhouette of Spider-Man’s ass.

“Not yet,” said Spider-Man.

They waited several minutes more. 

Finally, Deadpool had enough. This was more senseless inaction than he could handle, even _if_ he was really, really, _really_ into Spider-Man’s butt blocking three fourths of his vision.

“I’m going in,” he announced. He pushed past Spider-Man, hearing a hiss of protest and completely ignoring it. As he moved to take out the air vent hatch below them, a giant claw suddenly grabbed him out of the dark hole he’d been poised to jump out of.

“You think I didn’t see you go up there earlier?” sneered Green Goblin, blood pulsing in slow drips out of his gored eye. Some of the blood had splattered onto his non-injured eye as well.

Deadpool felt the wind knocked out of him as gigantic claws sank into his ribs and sent massive shockwaves of pain throughout every inch of his body. The metallic sheen of the collider drew closer and closer into his view, the whirring of the machinery inside getting louder and louder, until he was flung into a giant, gleaming ray of light. It flashed rainbow, almost blinding him, and spread sparks of electricity in every direction, some torching his suit and burning his skin.

He fell. Out of the corner of his watering eye, he saw Spider-Man still in the vent, his lenses widened, a palm outstretched and frozen in a web shooting motion.

But it was too late.

He felt himself being ripped into five thousand different directions as he entered the particle collider’s firing ray.

At first, he could only see millions upon millions of differently colored dots and shifting prismatic glass surfaces, like looking into the most eye-searing kaleidoscope in the world, every dot a white hot laser straight into his retinas. The various patterns maximized and minimized in his vision, almost like each singular piece had a heartbeat. Then the dots rearranged themselves in shifting waves, like computer pixels, into concrete images. 

The dots coalesced into a beautiful, dignified woman. She was in her fifties at most, with a single streak of white in her sleek black hair, running out of a lavishly decorated room as if her life depended on it. A boy gripped onto her hand. They both disappeared into the white beyond. 

He saw the same woman again, desperately spinning the driving wheel of a car, having turned onto the wrong lane, trying with all her might to get out of the way of a trailer.

She didn’t make it.

He saw the same woman and boy, flickering in and out of a subway car, crying out, “Wilson!” The woman brought her hand over her mouth. “What are you doing?”

He saw a buxom woman in a carbon copy of his own leather outfit, sporting a blonde ponytail. She slowly blew him a kiss, then waggled her fingers good bye, her form slowly melting back into a million rainbow particles.

A large red and black panda clawed its way out of the colorful abyss, a circular version of the Deadpool insignia on the panda’s belt. It roared, swiping furiously. The beast too disappeared. 

Then finally, as the colors swirled, coalescing again to form another image, he felt his brain recombine in a semblance of sentience. He heard a “Norman! Stop, you fucking idiot! Are you blind? That ain’t Spider-Man!” Claws tightened themselves into his stomach, and Green Goblin took him out of the particle collider’s beam.

Deadpool was indignant.

“Put me back,” he demanded. “You can’t just show that hot lady version of me and take me away! We could’ve made out! What the fuck!”

Kingpin gave him a hard stare from behind his plexiglass, where he was sequestered with all the nerds typing away. 

Then everything exploded.

The particle collider expanded and expanded until its metal and Stark-constructed parts flew everywhere, slamming into the concrete and metal of the surrounding room. Everything started to collapse, from the ceilings to the floor. Kingpin looked livid while his cronies screamed, the scientists running around in the hail of debris like headless chickens. A localized earthquake reverberated throughout the area, hitting the Green Goblin and causing him to drop Deadpool’s prone body. 

Dimly, he registered Kingpin and his nerd-goons running through the door leading to the 7 train Hudson Yards-bound track, and Spider-Man coming closer and closer into his field of vision, like a dream.

Then he heard the rumbling of everything collapsing. 

Tons and tons of concrete fell on top of his body, conspiring with gravity to keep him prone. He heard deafening echoes of pieces of wall, collider, plexiglass, and god-knows-what falling around him everywhere, as well as a tell-tale _thwip_ and soft “I gotcha” comforting him as he tumbled into the darkness for the, what, 456th time? He couldn’t tell. He’d been on this rodeo a billion times already.

Deadpool felt himself sinking slowly until he reappeared in the realm of Lady Death, a swirling pool of blackness coalescing into his purgatorial form.

“Go fish,” said Lady Death drolly, her incongruously huge tits swaying against the bleached bones of her ribcage, across from the table where he had materialized. 

“Hey, I didn’t even make a mo — ” He didn’t get a chance to be indignant, and felt himself being dragged back into the blackness.

When he resurfaced, he blinked once, then twice, then three times. 

Dust filled his nasal passages, and he felt an incredibly heavy pressure on his backside. 

He startled, then immediately felt his head knock painfully against a hard surface above him. 

Several tons of concrete had toppled over him, the debris having fallen in such a way as to form an extremely low makeshift roof so that he didn’t get squashed. At the same time, he could never, ever hope to get out from the tiny space he was trapped in. He didn’t have the strength. 

Also his spine kind of felt crushed and everything really hurt? It felt like there maybe was a pipe poking into the meat of his shoulder?

Nice.

This would have been the definition of eternal misery if he hadn’t been able to discern that baby powder smell under him anywhere.

“Fancy seeing you again, Webs,” he said. He feebly moved whatever he could of his arms, and felt sticky web residue coating his side that gave him a pretty good idea of how this situation came about.

The form trapped directly below him did not move, but he could still imagine an eyeroll. “Just my luck, huh?”

His ears registered distant shouts belonging to Kingpin and his henchmen. “Spider-Man’s around here somewhere! I just know it! His buddy fucked up our plans, but he’s gotta be nearby! Find him!” 

They heard the crunching of Doctor Octopus’ metal tentacles flinging massive pieces of concrete out of the way, as well as the panting of henchmen struggling to make sense of the destruction.

Spider-Man remained quiet under him, his breathing a metronome for the seconds ticking by. Deadpool’s muscles and bones creaked and whistled as they knitted themselves back together from the impact of the explosion. If he didn’t know any better, this was just like one of those situations he’d tried to engineer a long time ago to get close.

Except this time, he didn’t set anything up and had maybe, just maybe saved Spider-Man’s life by taking the hit in the collider’s ray.

“Why’d the thingamajig explode?” he whispered.

“Look, I’m a biochemist, not a biophysicist, so this is just a guess,” Spider-Man whispered back. “But in five year old terms, I think the constant regeneration of your cells matches the scrambling rate of the collider. And that just doesn’t sit right with the collider, which scrambles your atoms at an insanely fast rate, fast enough to keep you intact but still slow enough to hurt like a bitch. So, meeting its match, the collider gave up. Rebelled. Straight up exploded. Just a guess, though.” 

“I’ll accept it.” Deadpool tried to shrug, but he was trapped under several tons of concrete. “You wanna get us out of this situation with your sexy super strength, Petey?”

The voices around them died down as Kingpin and his cronies dug around the mess and failed to find Spider-Man and Deadpool. They heard a “Tch!” from Doctor Octopus, who slowly clanked further and further away on his tentacles. Spider-Man stayed silent. 

“Petey? Mind getting us out?” Deadpool tried again.

“I can’t,” said Spider-Man.

Deadpool snorted. “You shitting me?”

“No.”

“What, you getting old?”

He felt Spider-Man huff beneath him, shifting slightly. He was so warm. 

“If I tried pushing the concrete off from where I am, it’d break you in half.”

“Webs, I was maimed about five thousand times in that unicorn beam. My spine is broken. I can handle being broken in half if it’d get us out of here.”

Spider-Man’s voice was strangely small. “I don’t want to break you in half, Wade.”

“If you don’t, I’m going to be humping your ass until someone finds us. That might take _hours_. Hours of being subjected to the Leaky Deadpool Massage Special. You okay with that?” 

He felt Spider-Man’s pulse beat faster.

“Did you ever consider that maybe I don't mind you humping me that much, but I do mind seeing you get hurt?”

“And to think I cooked up all those plans to let me hump you when you wanted it all along,” said Deadpool.

“That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” said Spider-Man. He laughed softly. “But also, don’t do that. I’m not a guy worth cooking up evil plots to hump.”

Deadpool went silent for a few moments. Then he said, “You really think that? That you’re not worth it? Is that why you ran when my dick broke off in your ass?”

Spider-Man was silent for a few beats. He was probably mortified anew. They’d been friends long enough that Deadpool could imagine what was going on under that mask. Peter’s face was probably flushing fifty different shades of red right now.

Finally, he made a frustrated moan. “Why do you have to keep bringing that up?”

“Making up for lost time, because you wouldn’t.”

“Look. I’m sorry about that. Like every single day of my life,” said Spider-Man, his voice a whisper. “I really am.”

“Oh, don’t fret your cute little head over that, baby boy,” said Deadpool casually. “I’d one million percent let you do the same thing if we were to do it all over. You just have to not disappear afterwards.”

He heard a huff of laughter. “Christ, Wade. I’m thirty eight. Why do you still call me that?”

“You know the Mariah Carey song?” He started to warble. “♪♩ ‘ _Cause you’ll always be my baby…_ ♪”

“Don’t.”

“♪ _And we’ll linger on, ‘cause time can’t erase a feelin’ this strong…_ ♩”

“You’re flippin’ crazy, you know that?” Spider-Man’s voice sounded fond.

“No, you,” said Deadpool maturely.

Spider-Man’s breath hitched, his head turning towards Wade as far as he could. Through the decades of interpreting Spidey’s expressions, Deadpool could tell that the other was now looking at him softly, his white eye lenses gigantic pools of possibilities. The giant concrete slab above Deadpool was suddenly a non-entity. His spine, while still sore, was now at least functional.

Trapped under several tons of dust and plaster barely allowing a slot of space for them to breathe, he ground his hips down into Spider-Man’s ass.

He moved his head as much as he could in their current position over Spider-Man’s ear, then nipped it with his mouth. 

Spider-Man rolled back against him, creating a delicious friction that made his dick stiffen up and pay attention. Younger Spidey’s glutes had been rather plush, but current Spidey’s ass was simply nirvana. It had matured, like a fine wine, and provided the optimal ratio of give and resistance. If he were a scientist, it would warrant several investigations as a supernatural phenomena, but he wasn’t, so he just continued to grind into Spidey all the while, his head resting over the familiar crook of Spider-Man’s shoulder.

“Wade…” Spider-Man’s voice sounded breathy. Deadpool only wished he had free rein of his arms so he could finish what he’d started over a decade ago and finger him until he was crying into next Friday.

“Wade,” said Spider-Man again. 

Deadpool closed his eyes. How sweet it was to hear Spidey crying his name.

“WADE!”

Okay, this time it wasn’t sexy.

“What?” said Deadpool.

“There’re people coming.” Spider-Man’s entire body stiffened.

“So?” He literally did not give a single cheese-covered fuck if Doc Ock or Kingpin found them with his hand down Spidey’s pants. A man could only be edged so much.

Suddenly, Deadpool heard a kid’s voice. 

“I just know he’s around here,” said a girl.

There had been absolutely zero indication of her presence previously, and as someone who had years of experience stalking and being stalked, Deadpool practically had a sixth sense. Where the hell had she come from? How did she get so close undetected? It was like she’d materialized out of thin air.

“You think maybe he’s dead? He was already like, ancient,” said another kid. A boy. 

“Teens,” Spider-Man bemoaned under his breath. Inexplicably, he started raising his voice, yelling, “Hey! Over here! We’re over here!”

“Oh. Not dead,” remarked the girl. Suddenly, pinpricks of light struck Deadpool’s corneas, as massive chunks of concrete were effortlessly pulled off his body like they were pieces of foam. When he was completely free, he didn’t get up. He just kept lying there, face buried in Spider-Man’s shoulder, in the rubble, and in front of two teenagers.

He pointedly humped Spider-Man’s thigh one last time. 

“Wade,” said Spider-Man, this time in a voice filled with warning.

“Fine, fine,” he said, pouting under his mask. Reluctantly, he stood up, stretched, and turned around. He heard Spider-Man doing the same.

Standing before him was a girl-shaped person in a stylish white Spider-Man-like costume with a hood and pink accents, and a boy-shaped person in an equally stylish red and black Spider-Man costume. Now that he thought about it, Peter had zero comprehension of color theory, especially for a photographer. Red and black was the sickest color combination ever, and he’d let it get snapped up by some wet-behind-the-ears Spider-stranger.

Also, they could’ve matched! A major missed opportunity.

The newcomers regarded him with gazes filled equally with suspicion and fascination. 

“Hey Peter! ...And another Spider-Man?” The black and red Spider-boy put up a hand in greeting. His companion quickly covered his mouth.

“Ssshh! What if the other Spider-guy doesn’t know his secret identity?”

“It’s alright, he knows,” said Spider-Man tiredly. The white Spider took her hand off bashfully, lenses wide. “Also, he’s not a Spider-Man. Not that you guys aren’t a sight for sore eyes, but what’re you doin’ here?”

“Oh! Gwen got this super cool dimension hopper thing a while back and we thought we’d drop by!” replied the black and red Spider-boy. He showed off a clunky looking watch on his wrist, sporting all sorts of rainbow buttons and a screen that read 616.

Spider-Man crossed his arms.

“Cool doohickey. How long ago did you get it?” Spider-Man was not the slightest bit concerned with how a teen might have obtained a device that ripped portals into space-time when a multi-billionaire had to spend a fortune just to do the same thing. They might as well have been showing him a new iPhone. Just Spider-People Things™.

“We’ve had it for a few weeks,” said Spider-boy coolly.

“Why didn’t you visit earlier?” asked Spider-Man.

“Um… because we thought you might’ve been busy with your MJ and we didn’t want to accidentally drop in on something gross?” said Spider-girl. 

“Too late,” said Deadpool.

“Ignore him,” Spider-Man sighed.

“Who are you anyway?” The red and black Spider-boy squinted at Deadpool.

“His wife,” Deadpool replied insouciantly.

“You don’t really sound like MJ?” The boy squinted even harder, his lenses becoming mere holographic slashes. He sounded unsure of himself.

“I’ve been through a lot. You don’t know me.”

Spider-Man dragged his palms slowly down his face. “That’s Deadpool. He’s a friend.”

“You have friends?” blurted Spider-girl. 

“Dang, Gwen. That’s harsh,” said Spider-boy.

“I didn’t mean it like that, I’m just, uh, glad! That he has friends. Other friends. Just confirming,” said Spider-Girl, who had been identified as Gwen. The fabric near her cheeks pulled up in an awkward smile. 

“Anyway, Peter, you owe me burgers.” Spider-boy crossed his skinny little arms, trying to look like a loan shark coming to collect and failing terribly. 

“I don’t keep my wallet on my suit. Can we get a rain check on that?” Spider-Man was suddenly more shameless than Deadpool had ever known him.

“Dude, you’re an adult man. How do you never have any money? How do you even ride the bus?” asked Spider-boy.

“I have a Spider-Man tab with the MTA. It’s a job perk. I just go on and hope the driver honors it.”

“I’m his sugar daddy,” said Deadpool.

“I thought you said you were his wife?” pointed out Spider-boy.

“I’m flexible.”

“Wade… just... don’t talk. Don’t.” For the umpteenth time that evening, Spider-Man dragged his palms down his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand blueballed again. It might not even be the last time. Sadge.
> 
> There's probably 1 or 2 chapters left. Thanks again for all your amazing comments, they make my life!


	5. Am I The Asshole?

By the time Deadpool and Spider-People, Co. had evacuated the rubble, Kingpin and his associates had fled the scene due to the massive explosion drawing police attention. Soon enough, the remnants of the collider and the surrounding area were being swarmed by the NYPD. 7 train service had been impacted indefinitely, and the 42nd St. Bryant Park Station had been closed as an emergency. Gwen and Spider-boy (who had introduced himself as Miles) rounded up any scientist stragglers for law enforcement questioning, while Spider-Man handed off a USB drive with all his most up-to-date Kingpin data to a police detective that he was on semi-decent terms with. Hopefully, everything he had gathered up until now was enough to apprehend Wilson Fisk. Again. Fifth time was the charm.

Deadpool was starting to forget why he didn’t just shoot people to death and be done with it.

“Why do you carry around like five custom Spider-Man USB drives but not money?” Miles asked crossly. “How does that make any sense?”

“Look, I didn’t ask you about your doohickey and how you could use it to destroy the very fabric of reality as we know it. Some things just work.” Peter shrugged.

“They told us about [red herring fallacies](https://effectiviology.com/red-herring/#:~:text=The%20red%20herring%20fallacy%20is,discussion%20in%20a%20new%20direction.) in class, but okay,” said Miles. 

“Thanks for not asking about the dimension hopper, Peter,” said Gwen sarcastically. “Pretty sure we haven’t destroyed reality yet, but we’ll let you, the responsible adult, know when it happens.” Deadpool could recognize the action for Spider-person eye rolling from years of personal observation, and Gwen was doing it now.

“Eh, I trust you guys,” said Peter, waving a hand. He sounded fond, but his face was turned away.

Deadpool’s eyes were rapidly darting back and forth between the two newcomers. “I have so many questions.”

“I’d be up for twenty questions after a bite. What’s good in this dimension? You guys have a [Zomato](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zomato)?” Miles pulled up his smartphone, which was not receiving any data whatsoever, continuously flashing a “Searching for network…” message in the upper right corner. It seemed his phone did not jive with this dimension’s data plans.

“A-what-now?” asked Peter. 

“An app for looking up restaurants,” said Miles casually, as if Peter was painfully out of the loop. He was now flipping through his QQ Messenger history. Deadpool had only ever seen that app being used in their own dimension’s China, yet strings upon strings of English-language conversations with friends and family popped up on Miles’ message records. Alternate dimensions were wild.

“It’s his version of Yelp,” explained Gwen.

“Thank you,” said Peter earnestly. “I have enough trouble keeping up with all the apps in my own dimension as is.”

The four of them ended up deciding to swing to [Shake Shack](https://farm3.staticflickr.com/2927/14646497473_4e408110c1_c.jpg) at Grand Central Terminal, as it happened to also be a popular chain in Miles’ bizarro universe. Miles was the peckish one, and he and Gwen _had_ saved (cockblocked) Deadpool and Spider-Man, so whatever the younger Spiders wanted, they got. As the One With Money, Deadpool had paid for everything, easily winning over the Spider-teens, who had assigned themselves the task of looking for available tables while Spider-Man and Deadpool waited in line for food. No one talked to them. The city was teeming with spandex freaks, even more than there were actors and reality TV stars. Johnny Storm probably came to this location just yesterday.

The group settled down at a double table, with a super-sized mountain of burgers, fries, and shakes between them. The neon cast of the Shake Shack sign bathed them in a green glow.

Deadpool didn’t know the newcomers very well, but he liked them. Peter clearly liked them, but Deadpool noticed he didn’t seem to talk to Gwen as much. When Peter gazed at Gwen, there was something distant in his eyes. Then he would swivel away quickly, as if to rebuke himself. 

Funnily enough, when Peter’s back was turned, Gwen did the same thing. Her expression was so profoundly mournful that it wrenched a pang of feeling from Deadpool’s tiny, shriveled heart. 

Gwen gazing at Peter was like a parent looking at a child they had lost. Then when Peter turned around, she’d go back to plastering a smile on her face and teasing him about how rough he looked.

“My dad only lets me get like, two burgers at most whenever we come here. He says Shake Shack is overrated,” said Miles, one of his eyes twitching in silent horror at the sight that unfolded across from him.

“He’s right,” Peter said between mouthfuls of his second Shackburger. The group had sat down not too long ago, only to see an empty wax wrapper at his side already. “This stuff is just a tourist trap.” 

Miles’ eye continued to twitch, followed by the corner of his mouth, like he was having war flashbacks. He and Gwen were completely unmasked, while Spider-Man and Deadpool had their masks pulled up to their noses. 

Of course Miles and Gwen were perfectly adorable, with unblemished skin, big eyes, and effortlessly tousled hair. They were even perfectly styled in their custom, perfectly-fitted suits, looking the very picture of cool Instagram teens. All they needed was a Clarendon filter.

Were there any Spider-people who weren’t genetically blessed? Didn’t any of them actually look like freaky spiders under the mask? The Spider-Ham Deadpool had heard about was probably a furry wet dream. 

“In my universe, this place is called [Custard Park](https://www.amny.com/eat-and-drink/shake-shack-recipes-stories-what-we-learned-from-the-burger-chain-s-new-book-1-13587901/),” said Gwen. She was smiling lightly, her face resting against her palm.

Deadpool gagged on his hot dog. “No style! Not even alliterative.”

“Why would you even go to Shake Shack when [Krysoulas](https://img.fireden.net/co/image/1538/58/1538586355924.jpg) is down the block from your place?” Peter asked, staring directly at Miles. He had been so tuned to the newcomers that he didn’t even rebuke Deadpool for getting a hot dog at a burger place. “Man. If that place were still open, I wouldn’t be living in Queens.”

“It’s not that good,” said Miles, slumping down in his seat. “Besides, Greek food isn’t my thing.”

“You take that back,” said Peter with no heat. An entire boat of bacon cheese fries nearby had evaporated, and he was making quick work of doing the same to a second. 

“He do this to you too?” Miles gestured grandly towards the empty fry container and two empty burger wax wrappers. In contrast, he had only finished one of his own, and his second burger was being waved around to make a point about Peter’s gluttony.

“Yeah, he always eats like an animal,” said Deadpool dismissively. “Me, on the other hand? Can’t imagine not eating with a fork, three spoons, and five tiny knives. If there were a cloth napkin, I’d be tucking it into my décolletage. I’m a straight up gentleman. Just call me Sir Poolington the Seventeenth, Duke of Devereaux, Lord of Zbornakshire — ”

“Liar. Also, they’re too young to get those references,” said Peter with his mouth full. 

“I’ve watched Golden Girls,” said Gwen. “Not all teens.”

“Dang. You should’ve been a ‘Pool, TBH. You’re not square enough to be a Spider. I thought you were only twice as cool as Pete here, but it turns out you’re actually one hundred times cooler!” Deadpool looked like he was about to pee his pants. 

“Always have been,” replied Gwen, exaggeratedly flipping her hair like she was in a Pantene commercial. “I mean. Yeah. That was a joke, by the way. Peter’s cool too. In his own way.”

“That’s the kindest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” cried Peter, pretending to wipe a tear away from his eye. In 0.1 seconds flat, he went back to hooking his arm over his chair and lazily throwing a fry into the air to catch it with his mouth “By the way, Miles, great job taking down Kingpin. Always knew you could do it. Never doubted you. Never considered condemning myself to a slow, agonizing death because you couldn’t do it, or anything like that. Because you did it. How’d it go down?”

“Eh. Nothing big. Just took him down with a trick my uncle taught me.” Miles shrugged, but he was grinning too, clearly pleased. Then a shadow flitted across his face, as if something he’d just said had offended some deep part of himself. He straightened up. “Why’s Kingpin still running loose in this dimension?”

“Not everything’s hunky dory after the cops come in,” said Peter. “No evidence, bribes, shady lawyers, the testimony of an unidentified vigilante having no hold in court, blah blah blah.” He grabbed a boat of crinkle fries in front of Miles, who grabbed it back and gave him a glare.

“I’m gonna eat that!”

“Learn to eat faster, kid. Spider-Man tip number fifty six: crime doesn’t wait for digestion.”

“Fifty six?! You only ever gave me one Spider-Man tip!”

“No offense, but even I’ve been a better Spider-mentor,” said Gwen. 

“You got there eventually, didn’t you?” Peter grinned crookedly. “I’m actually kind of proud, not gonna lie.”

Miles grinned back, hiding it quickly with another bite of his burger. 

At that moment, a woman in a peacoat approached their table.

“Are you... Spider-Man?” she asked Peter hesitantly, her eyes flitting hesitantly over the table but still sparkling. She nodded towards the others. “Spider-Men?”

“Nah. Just Comic-Con leftovers. Move along,” said Peter, waving her off. 

“Comic-Con was four months ago,” pointed out the lady.

“We’re waiting around for the next one,” said Peter. 

“Ooh! Me! I’m a Spider-Man!” squealed Deadpool. 

The woman squinted at him. “You buy that costume at a store? Looks off.”

Then she left. 

“Woooow,” said Gwen. She slurped her strawberry milkshake, looking coolly in Deadpool’s direction. “I thought you said you were a super cool Avenger.”

“I totes am, just a super duper cool black ops Avenger. Of course people wouldn’t know me. I’m top secret. Thus, much cooler.”

“If people didn’t think you were me, that collider wouldn’t have exploded. So thanks for taking the hits, DP,” said Peter. He held out a fist and Deadpool bumped it.

“So, like… How did… What are your powers?” asked Miles, his eyes roving over Deadpool’s exposed chin area, looking earnestly curious. 

“I have incurable cancer,” said Deadpool. 

“I’m… sorry to hear that. It must be tough.” Gwen sounded genuinely contrite.

“It all started when I was bit by a radioactive water container and left for dead. That’s how I got my name, see. Deadpool! Then when a band of stray sentient water pipes murdered my entire family, I had no choice but to apprentice myself under [Billy Mays](https://youtu.be/2PU8ZxQj7eE), so that I might one day wield OxiClean to its fullest potential and seek revenge. Only by committing senseless squeegeeing can you find inner peace. Quote unquote ancient warlord Mr. Clean.”

“Plumbing can turn sentient?” Miles asked.

“Oh, you don’t even wanna know,” said Peter. “If you’re lucky, you’re not gonna have to fight a [living mass of sewer water](https://marvel.fandom.com/wiki/Morris_Bench_\(Earth-616\)#Dirty_Job) any time soon.”

Gwen squinted, her lips tightened, as if she was drawn between believing them and calling them on their bullshit. Miles just looked concerned.

“Deadpool’s kidding, but I’m not. When you go home smelling like the bubonic plague and someone’s taco dinner for the next three days, you’re gonna be grateful for Doc Ock and all the other bad guys that wash their hands, trust me.” Peter suddenly pointed in the distance, a hand clapped over his mouth in shock. “Holy crap, what’s that?”

“Where?” Deadpool, Gwen, and Miles said in unison. They quickly swiveled their heads to ogle in the direction Peter had pointed, but all they saw was a brightly lit Hale & Hearty Soups storefront.

“Never mind. Must’ve been seeing things,” said Peter. Mysteriously, all the food from Gwen’s side of the table had migrated to Peter’s during the moment they were distracted.

She rolled her eyes. “Ugh! You could’ve just asked. Or gotten your friend — your sugar daddy?” She gagged while punctuating sugar daddy with air quotes, “— to buy you more. He seems totally loaded.”

“Yeah, _Peter_ ,” said Miles. “Spider-Man shouldn’t steal. Sets a bad example.”

“Don’t know a Spider-Man,” said Peter breezily. “I’m just some Comic-Con guy.”

“Anyway.” Gwen stared at Deadpool, crossing her arms and her legs. “Could we get the truth about your powers? I’d appreciate it if you’d make it quick, since it’s a school night, and I have like, three hundred words left to write for my US History paper.”

* * *

* * *

At around 10:30 PM, the younger Spiders, fully mollified by Deadpool’s [AmEx Black](https://www.cnbc.com/2020/07/23/what-its-like-owning-an-amex-black-card.html), waved good-bye and found an abandoned piss-scented corner to disappear back into their respective universes. Peter had waved back and told them to visit any time, except not during the day, when he was most likely to be extremely busy. He had a lot of ceiling to stare blankly at.

But he didn’t phrase it like that, of course. He also didn’t tell them about what had ultimately transpired between him and Mary Jane. The pitying looks the younger Spiders gave him when they thought he was out of earshot made it clear how much they knew. They were perceptive, and gearing up to be far better Spider-(wo)men than Peter had ever been. And Deadpool knew Peter thought that too. 

The youth really were the future, Deadpool sighed to himself. Man, he really hoped there was a Deadpool version of Gwen somewhere. Wouldn’t that be something? If only such an entity existed. Imagine.

Deadpool and Spider-Man stood in front of the Grand Central Terminal, now closed and bereft of the tourist-attracting bright lights it boasted in the daytime. It’d take at least an hour to go back to Forest Hills from there by public transit, and Wade knew Peter didn’t like to web sling on a full stomach. He had his reasons. 

“Wanna come over?” Deadpool asked casually. “One of my places isn’t too far from here.”

Peter’s mask was back on his face, and Spider-Man’s two holographic lenses glowed bright in the shadow of the Park Ave. Viaduct overlooking Grand Central. 

“Sure,” he said. “Is it the one not too far from [Sprinkles](https://www.yelp.com/biz/sprinkles-new-york-upper-east-side-new-york)?”

“Yeah, it’s the one near Sprinkles,” Deadpool acknowledged. “We can walk.” 

“Okay,” said Spider-Man. He took the lead, walking briskly in front, which Deadpool had absolutely no objections to. 

Deadpool’s Manhattan Midtown safehouse was one of the living spaces he inhabited most frequently, due to the surrounding area being a hotbed of evil scientist plots, bomb warnings, giant killer bunny uprisings, and other phenomena. The Bloomingdale’s nearby also had one of his favorite people in the world, Fred, who worked the sales floor and chatted with him about their favorite 70’s actresses as he brought Deadpool box after box of designer shoes he had no intention of buying. They were just super shiny and he had to touch.

Spidey had come over countless times by now. They’d played Super Smash Bros late into the night, they’d argued over Overwatch (“Stop instalocking Genji, you are a silver Genji _at best_ ,” said Spider-Man), and they’d eaten mediocre, overpriced Midtown pizza, and maybe Subway’s a few times, which was blasphemous, but mom-n-pop bodegas vending foot-long sandwiches didn’t exist in that part of Manhattan anymore. 

Spider-Man’s steps were ninja-silent as he walked towards Deadpool’s Midtown pad, the location probably burned into his brain from the sheer amount of time they’d spent together there. 

“The kids were cool,” said Deadpool.

“Yeah, they’re great,” said Spider-Man a little too quietly. “They’ve got it all figured out.”

“Did you know? There are other versions of me out there, too.”

Spider-Man snorted. “Sounds terrifying.”

“There was this super hot chick version of me,” said Deadpool. “I saw her in the death ray. She totally eyefucked me. I bet she looks like Pamela Anderson underneath, but super deep fried and crunchy.” He leered. “Love me some sunny side up eggs.” 

“I dunno if wanting to fuck yourself is something to be proud of, pal.”

“Yeah, well, no one else would,” said Deadpool.

“That’s not true,” Spider-Man said slowly.

“You would.”

“Yeah, I — Wait a minute. Ah hah hah haaaah. I’m onto you.” He wagged a finger. 

“The kids are gone. You can say it.”

“One ego stroke a day, remember?.” 

“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease?”

“Pool, please don’t make this weird.”

“The shrink said constantly measuring your own fuckability is a super healthy coping method for low self-esteem! I need you to confirm how fuckable I am for my mental health. It’ll save Tony Stark $500 per hour. I know how much you’d want to help him with his finances. He’s running out of space for bathtubs to put his cash in, so it’s reeeaaally crucial that you help him save.”

“That thing about what the shrink said doesn’t sound legit. At all.”

“How would you know?” said Deadpool. “You’ve never gone to one.”

Spider-Man opened his mouth to protest, but he was cut off. Deadpool continued, “Aaand Googling ‘is it normal to always be sad’ doesn’t count as therapy.”

He kicked a tiny rock into the sewer. “And you know what the shrink also said? And Katy Perry? About being [hot and cold](https://youtu.be/kTHNpusq654)? About leading on your best friend for years? It’s real scummy. He definitely said that.”

Spider-Man stopped in his tracks, his shoulders going rigid.

“What?”

Deadpool gasped. “Is this news to you, Webs?”

“No. That’s just — I didn’t _lead you on_.”

“Then what else do you call moaning under me back there like ‘Ohhh Daddypool, I love it when you hump me’ and now this ‘Wade, don’t make this weird’ bullshit?” He didn’t know why he was getting so pissed when he could’ve just not derailed this conversation into being about the decade-long worth of resentment he’d had boiling under his skin.

If he were just a little more patient, he probably could’ve gotten what he wanted. They had been so close to the finish line. Spider-Man had even let him hump his leg.

But he was anything but patient, and this had been the longest wait of his life.

“Look, I was _married_!” Spider-Man folded in on himself. “For years! Don’t think I haven’t noticed the come-ons from you the moment MJ and I weren’t a thing anymore. Besides, yeah, you are my best friend, but so was she, and now she’s just… Gone.”

Deadpool said nothing. Unfortunately, Spider-Man took this as a cue to keep going.

“She was gone, because of me. I woke up next to her every morning. Counted her freckles, tasted her morning breath on our mugs. I can’t just turn it off. You know. Thinking about her.”

“Didn’t we establish that verbal diarrheaing about your marriage is also — pun intended — really shitty?” Deadpool sneered.

Whispers of Vanessa came unbidden to his mind. He hadn’t thought about his swaggering old blonde self in years, but the image of that man worshiping the body of a woman, visual equals, smooth skin against smooth skin, making coffee together afterwards, played behind his retinas without his consent. Him and her. That was the last time he had experienced the sort of lazy domesticity the other had described.

It pissed him off.

Spider-Man pressed on, his voice sounding hoarse and slightly nasal: “I know. But that’s why I can’t. I mean — I still have her number, and I still forget that I can’t just call her up and tell her about the stupidest things. Like a cute dog I saw, or how ridiculously gross the concept of a rainbow grilled cheese is. I’m not over it, I’m really not. The scope of how bad everything got, it’s just — it’s like if you just faded away from my life and I could never see you again. If we got together, right now, that’s what would happen, and I can’t risk messing up the other great thing I have in my life.”

“If I’m so awesome, then riddle me this, Petey.” Deadpool’s voice was thin. “Why am I still not good enough for you?”

“Because I wouldn’t use you as a rebound. That’s just wrong.” Spider-Man turned around and looked him dead in the eye. “You deserve better than that.”

“That is utter bullshit,” said Deadpool. “Why the hell would I disappear? It’s not even in my genetic makeup. You can’t get rid of me. I’m a fungus, remember? You’re… Well.” He scratched his chin awkwardly, torn between rage and the new need to prove that he was horrible enough to be worthy of Spider-Man’s romantic consideration. “You’re not worse than me, Webs. If it weren’t for your no-kill dogma, I’d still be an asshole. The worst kind, with hemorrhoids and oozing pus and everything. Real [goatse](https://knowyourmeme.com/memes/goatse) and [Tubgirl](https://knowyourmeme.com/memes/tubgirl) shit. I’d go viral on the internet, sure, but I was still the worst kind of anus imaginable. Now I’m an asshole, but a clean one! Gonorrhea-free!” 

He extended his arms in the air like he was a reformed alcoholic at an AA meeting extolling the virtues of being sober for several months. Like he was Tim Robbins’ character in the Shawshank Redemption, joyfully embracing the clean rain.

“Look, I didn’t have anything to do with what you are today,” said Spider-Man tiredly. “It was all you, bud. You were always better, and you realized it.” 

He barked out a short laugh, but there was no mockery in it. “Hell, you’re better than you think I am. Right now, I’m the damn fungus. Might as well be one, with what the inside of my kitchen cabinet looks like.”

He turned around again, cloaking himself in shadow, and started to walk again at a measured pace. “Anyway, can we just — not talk about this? Right now? I dunno how you have the energy to deal with it, after that warehouse ruckus, and being dropped into the collider, and getting torn up by Norman, but I’m beat. Just let me crash at your place. We’ll discuss all this, y’know, whatever we are, later.”

So they were falling back into their normal routine. They just didn’t talk about it, all the liquidy feelings that had flooded out shoved back into their respective bottles, which were then placed back into the darkest shadows of their mental cabinets. Spider-Man would undoubtedly be gone by morning. 

_It’s not you, it’s me_ was the oldest cop-out in the book. Everyone knew that. The bees knew it, the birds knew it, every single fuckboy on Tinder knew it. 

“Sure,” Deadpool said nonchalantly. He walked faster, to keep shoulder-to-shoulder with Spider-Man. 

Then he slammed Spider-Man into an adjacent glass storefront, cornering him entirely into a tiny space with his superior bulk. He leaned in close until their foreheads touched. New York continued to pass them by. It was like time had frozen as he studied Spider-Man’s blank lenses, mere inches away from his own.

Spider-Man, to his credit, did not seem surprised. Deadpool had to admit he _did_ kind of do these things on the regular, like breaking into Spider-Man’s home to wake him up and spiking his coffee and paying people to commit crimes to get Spider-Man to show up in certain areas and now cornering him into walls out of frustration with their sexual tension. Spider-Man had probably seen almost every morally dubious action he was capable of. 

Maybe he was getting predictable. 

“What the hell are you doing,” Spidey said flatly.

“You’re not running away down the waterspout this time, Webs.”

“That’s not how the rhyme went.” 

“We were about to get it on back there. When we were trapped under all that dusty plaster action. Why’d you change your mind so quick? You seemed all ready to forget your marriage ever existed. Was it really just the ex?”

“There’s a good reason,” Spider-Man replied breezily. “And that is… it’s none of your damn beeswax.”

“Anyway,” said Deadpool, “I have a proposal. This doesn’t have to be about feelings. What if we just horizontally tangoed? Did the do? Climbed each other like trees? Fucksicled? No strings attached? Just to relieve stress? Feelings are icky. I get that.”

“That is the worst idea I’ve ever heard. And I’ve overheard _a lot_ of bad ideas, given my rogues gallery. Even if you wanted to be FWB, this isn’t the way to do it, pal. I give it a three out of ten at best.”

“You want it. I know you do. But you’re playing this goody two shoes martyr thing again. Guess what? It’s not being good. It’s just being scared. You know you want to, but you’re too chicken to take the leap.” Deadpool’s eyes narrowed. “Squawk, squawk, squawk.”

He caged Spider-Man in further, until their noses touched through their masks. Spider-Man’s measured breathing bled through the leather, ghosting his skin even in the winter cold.

“I’m not. That’s not the issue here. Look, I’m not afraid of snapping your dick off again, because I’ve gotten a lot better at that. Everything this is — it’s just a can of worms that I don’t wanna get into.”

“Never heard of a spider scared of worms before,” Deadpool taunted.

Spider-Man sighed. “I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me. I really am. But I just…”

“You’ve always been a coward.”

“Wade. I am not falling for this again.”

“I bet that’s why she left.” 

Spider-Man wasn’t making any move at shoving him off. He could’ve launched Deadpool across the street, into another block, but he was simply deathly still, letting Deadpool trap him as if it was inevitable. His body language held no trace of defensiveness. Everything about him just seemed tired, his head lying limply at a slightly off angle, as if it were being supported wholly by the wall behind.

Then his arms reached out towards Deadpool’s side and he pivoted with a singular, seamless motion. Deadpool felt his cranium slam forcefully onto the night-chilled surface of glass, enough to send a web of tiny cracks radiating behind him. Blood roared between his ears, threatening to spill. 

Spider-Man had reversed the situation. Now Deadpool was the one caught.

“You really grind my gears, you know that?” Spider-Man hissed into his face, his leather collar balled tightly in the other’s hand. “Tell me. _Why_ do you keep doing this? Is it really worth everything we have just to get your fucking dick wet? Is that what this all boils down to?”

“Nothing about what we have is gonna disappear. You know why?” Deadpool grinned, unfazed by the outburst. “Because no matter what I do, you’ll always forgive me. You know that, don’t you?”

Spider-Man stared at him, seething, his gaze hard even through the barrier of his mask. It was heady to incite anger where there had only been resignation before. 

He was drunk with Spider-Man’s newfound rage, and he wanted more.

“Admit it, sugar lumps. You don’t have it in you. To try anything new, to decide whether you wanna be Spider-Man or average sad sack Peter Parker, to cut me off like a cancerous lesion when you know I’ve been messing with you since day one, to just realizing that you’re never gonna get to have kids and play house, _ever_ , because you — ” 

“Shut up,” Spider-Man said quietly.

He surged forward and bit Deadpool on his lower lip through their masks, drawing blood. The offending pieces of fabric were gracelessly shoved up to their noses, and for twenty seconds, they kissed with every ounce of rage they had under the watch of skyscrapers and brownstones, passersby carrying on around them as if they saw vigilantes make out on the street every single day of their lives. Deadpool felt teeth, smelled musk and talcum, and tasted beef on the other’s tongue. Sandpaper stubble left new trails of red all over his skin, ones that weren’t called forth by his cancer. The hand fisted in his collar fell loose, ghosting over his side, leaving pinpricks of sensation wherever they swept.

Then Spider-Man stepped back, pulled down his mask, and shot a string of web at the lamp pole nearest to them.

As always, he ran, leaving Deadpool alone with his fifth billion Spidey-induced boner.

God, he was getting really sick of the Wile E. Deadpool and Spidey-Roadrunner show. 


	6. Cock Destroyers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **GO TO END OF CHAPTER NOTES FOR ALL R18 WARNINGS IN THIS CHAPTER AND INSTRUCTIONS ON HOW TO SKIP THE PORN PARTS.**

Deadpool walked back to his apartment ruminating on whether he should walk further on Mary Jane’s well-trod path and make an Am I The Asshole thread on Reddit. 

I (Stunningly Handsome 40M) Have Been Hitting On My (38M) Friend For Years And He Got Divorced Half A Year Ago? After I Saved His Life, He Let Me Hump Him A Little But When I Asked Him To Pet My Moldy Cheese Stick Dong He Got Mad? I’m Really Rich And Did I Mention Hollywood Actor Handsome And Also Am Really Only 40 Years Old? AITA?

He opened his Spidey-Spotting app. The round Spider-Man icon stayed put at around 45th St. and 5th Ave., which was basically where Spider-Man had kissed and ditched him. 

The tracker was probably abandoned on a sidewalk somewhere and could only have been removed by Spider-Man if he was actively looking for it. Deadpool had access to the best trackers in the world as part of his work. The device was nigh undetectable and should’ve stayed stuck on through all sorts of action, including collider explosions, buildings collapsing, and angry makeouts. 

Given that the tracker had been tossed around the spot they argued at, _right_ after they had argued, Peter must have known from the start that Wade had put a tracker on him. He had let it remain, only ripping it off as a pointed act of spite. _Don’t follow me. I mean it this time_ , the move said. 

Deadpool wasn’t going to lie, it felt nice to incite that much pettiness in the supposedly morally aloft web-slinger. Also, it was cute that Spider-Man had known he was being followed the entire time and hadn’t minded until Deadpool pissed him off. 

Maybe Spider-Man had even been into it. If he ever became unmad, Deadpool might try putting trackers on him more often, just to see how far Spidey would let him go.

He gave it a week max before Spider-Man would go back to having selective amnesia. He could see it now. Spidey would be hanging out somewhere in the open in Queens, letting Deadpool casually walk up to him. They’d fall right back into heatedly discussing the most recent Walking Dead episode or something else equally stupid as if nothing had ever happened. If even Deadpool was getting predictable, then Spider-Man was a rusty train pulling into the station on-the-dot every day for the past fifteen years.

To be honest, he kind of wanted Spider-Man to stay mad. It would’ve been new.

Now that Spider-Man wasn’t accompanying him, Deadpool considered taking the subway to one of his preferred living spaces in the Bronx. The Midtown apartment he had been heading to previously was small and not really his favorite, even though he stayed there quite frequently. Spider-Man liked the Midtown apartment best out of all his residences because the [F train going express to Forest Hills](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lexington_Avenue%E2%80%9363rd_Street_station) was nearby, but that was a moot point now.

His thoughts drifted in and out, mostly coalescing around what had transpired between them, but also on whether his new lamp really matched the rest of that apartment’s decor. What? He was probably some days shy of hitting the big fifty, he could be into interior decorating. Maybe he should even take up woodworking. Or bridge. Wait, was he even anywhere near fifty? If he was, did that mean he would soon be at an age where he could go to [Miami and live in a shared home with three other cool gals](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Golden_Girls) in the prime of their lives? He would have to be the Blanche, but he was more than okay with that. One million percent more than okay. He’d affect his best Southern accent, get a bunch of outfits that showed off his heaving bosoms, stay up late at night discussing gentleman friends over cheesecake with his pals, and become the Resident Ho of the retirement community, and — 

The fantasy was so engrossing that before Deadpool knew it, his legs had carried him past the 59th St. subway station where the 6 train to the Bronx was. 

Oh well. Guess he had to settle for staying the night at the Midtown apartment.

After another few streets, he finally reached his destination and walked into the brightly lit lobby. The lone security guard at the front desk was playing on her phone. She paid no heed to the 6’2”, fully armed man dressed head-to-toe in a skin tight red suit walking past her. Deadpool casually strolled to the elevator and pressed up.

“The elevator isn’t working,” said the security guard, her eyes still fully glued to the phone.

“Who do I have to maim to change that?” He really wasn’t in the mood for this.

“It’ll be out until lunch tomorrow.” 

Deadpool stared her down, hoping she would give up names. Unfortunately, there was no way to stare down someone who would not look up. She continued to tap away at her smartphone screen. She would probably be doing the same thing even if it were Judgment Day and flaming rocks were raining down everywhere. The game she was playing sounded vaguely like Boggle.

Finally, Deadpool just groaned and took the L. He marched to the staircase door, pushed it open, and started trudging up. Taking the fire escape route would’ve been easier, but he didn’t foresee the elevator being out of order. He completely should have, given that this particular building was ancient. The antique metal boxes creakily ferrying people between floors broke down about every ten seconds. 

When he finally kicked open the entrance to his floor, and then to his own apartment, he was ready to just lie on his leather sofa and never get up. His emotions had been sucked up by a Kansas hurricane and then spat out in Oz. Maybe he’d see if Captain “Steve_2190291” America was online in ye olde Xbox and be witness again to children verbally abusing a living legend until his mood picked up. 

He flipped on the lights, then belly flopped onto his couch. Somehow, he missed it and hit his chin on the edge. 

His most pathetic whine in recent memory slipped out of his lips, and he just gave up and slid to the floor. He lay there like a mannequin for several moments, face burning against the scratchy blue carpet. It kind of felt good against his constantly shifting skin.

“So, I’ve been thinking about the fungus metaphor.”

Someone else had gotten to his apartment first. The trespasser must have gotten in through the window and had been lying in wait in the dark for him to arrive. He whipped his head around, seeing the Number One Most Wanted on his shit list sitting casually on a corner of the ceiling.

“Maybe we’re both moldy,” the intruder continued.

Deadpool threw himself onto the couch with newfound gusto. He started rummaging under his cushions for a gun with real bullets, not the kiddy toys he carried around nowadays to appease his draconian overseers.

The dusty Glock 17 hiding among the candy wrappers would do. He had remembered its location very well because he’d accidentally set it off once while sitting and it shot him clean in the ass. With purpose, he seized the gun, depressed the safety trigger into the actual trigger, and fired multiple times in the direction of the menace on his ceiling.

“What are you doing?! Wait, are those real bullets?” Spider-Man yelped. Sadly, he had quickly scuttled out of the trajectory of the shots, mask lenses wide at the smoking new holes. 

“No more Mr. Nice Pool,” said Deadpool. “You take your sorry hiney out my space right this second or I’ll turn full-on scorned [incel](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Controversial_Reddit_communities#Incels). But like, one that used to be a super sex-haver. The sex-havingest. And who only goes on Reddit to look for knitting tips...” He aimed again at Spider-Man and unhesitatingly pulled the trigger — “Because there are way too many other incels on the rest of the site!” 

Spider-Man swiftly jerked his shoulders to the side to avoid the shot, and dropped off the ceiling to land in a crouch on the ground in front of Deadpool. “Wade, listen to me. About what just happened — ”

“Oh, _now_ you have the energy to talk? Real funny. You’re a regular comedian, Webs. I’m not laughing until you leave or I take you out in a body bag.” 

Spider-Man quickly slid onto the ground to duck another bullet that had been aimed squarely at his head. His adorable little Spidey-Sense basically enabled a cheat mode in Deadpool’s usually flawless aim game. 

Spider-Man had _all_ the cheats. He was super strong, he was super smart, and he was stupidly attractive, among 999x other character attributes that weren’t supposed to be unlockable. 

Yet he had wasted every single one. Pity. 

Spider-Man got back onto the balls of his feet again. “Wow. Did you dust off your 9mm slugs just for me? For the first time in years? Did I really piss you off that much?”

“Yeah, you did,” said Deadpool. “Anyone else, all they can do is blow me up and chop off a leg or two. It’ll all grow back. But you know what?” He fired at Spider-Man’s leg for a change of pace, but this time it was simply side stepped. “This is super cheesy, but... my heart isn’t gonna heal from what you’ve done. I need a pacemaker now, but like, for feelings.”

“That’s what Hulu is for, bud.” Spider-Man performed a handstand over the couch to dodge the newest shots. He slid down its back for cover. “This is starting to remind me of when we first met, actually.” 

“I barely even remember when that was,” said Deadpool, casually walking around the couch to fire again.

“It was when you were taking a job here to tail some guy I was sucking up to for Bugle photos?” Spider-Man simply flipped to the other side of the couch to avoid him. Oh, he could do this all day. “And then you held someone hostage, and shot at me a few times, and finally gave up and tried to wrestle me to the ground? And then our tussle destroyed a food cart?”

Deadpool tossed his Glock onto his floor, knowing Spider-Man wouldn’t retrieve it, then stalked over to his closet and started looking for a machine gun that could easily rip through couches at close range. “That wasn’t it. It definitely wasn’t. It was when I was about to make off with a mafioso’s family jewels and you swung in and drop kicked me in the face. You know, back when you didn’t swim in baby powder, and you actually smelled really good? Like a normal human? When the fuck did the baby powder thing even start?”

“Nah. I’m right,” said Spider-Man. He had leapt up to his initial place on the ceiling, now watching Deadpool warily. “What are you doing?”

“Bzzzt. You’re a hundred percent-o wrong-o, pal-o. Also, quiet. I’m looking for a machine gun here.”

“To shoot me with?” There was a hint of mirth in Spider-Man’s voice. 

“You seem awfully into the idea of being shot there, Webs. I’m an obliging kind of man.” Ugh. The machine gun was disassembled, and its parts were scattered all across a massive mound of unboxed and unmelted Funko Pops he’d shoved in there. It would take forever for him to find and reassemble the gun. But he also really wanted to murder Spider-Man.

“Sure. I’ll wait. But before then, I was gonna talk to you about something.” He heard a finger snap behind him, as if a light bulb went off somewhere in Spider-Man’s head. “Right! Being a mold.”

“Not listening. Go do something useful, Webs. Get out and go cry about your ex-wife.”

“I don’t appreciate the animosity you have towards my relationship with MJ, but I get it. And you’re right. About the verbal diarrhea, and the giving you mixed signals. Sorry. I got really upset.”

“Too late.” Deadpool was still rummaging for his machine gun parts, although now he was doing it on autopilot. He’d found most of the PKM so far, save for various small and darkly colored springs and pins that were difficult to distinguish in the dim lighting of the closet. Over the years, he’d started to reduce his own exposure to lethal weapons in an active attempt to cut down on self-harm urges. Sure, he could kill himself with 99% of the objects around the apartment, but the effort required would deter him to some extent. A pencil still had to be sharpened before getting shoved into his brain. Drano left the worst aftertaste ever when he woke up.

Also, he had to admit that seeing how badly he could maim enemies with baby toys had become way more fun than just mindlessly shooting them into flesh chunks. He had thought that he didn’t need his lethal arsenal anymore, and sold the majority or moved them away to another storehouse. 

There were probably around six guns still loaded with real bullets left around the apartment. He could not remember the location of the other four. They might have been in the fridge, the oven, taped behind a desk, or flushed down the toilet. The PKM was the most heavy duty of the guns he’d left scattered around, as well as one of the only two whose location he had definite memory of. He could assemble it in under thirty seconds, but that was dependent on finding all the bits. _Why_ had he disassembled the PKM so thoroughly that even key parts such as the bolt had been broken down into a jumble of assorted tiny metal cylinders? He’d either had a kumbaya episode or tried to appease the cleaning lady who came over sometimes and had complained about how his apartment was practically a minefield. No one deserved to be maimed for minimum wage, but if his gun had been dismantled for the former reason, he was hating Eat Pray Love Wade immensely.

Maybe he should just shiv Spider-Man. Actually, that was starting to sound like a really good idea. The other had his Spidey-Sense cheat, but he hadn’t honed his muscle memory and fighting instincts through a lifetime of being sponge-level squishy _and_ getting up close and nasty with every sort of enemy possible. All he did was exploit his natural agility and durability, both of which were deteriorating as he aged.

Deadpool also knew that the back injury had hurt Spider-Man irreversibly. If he struck at the exact point of impact where it happened, it would be game over. But as much as he hated Spider-Man, that would be pretty low.

He wouldn’t stab him. There was something really enjoyable about the thought of pumping Spider-Man full of lead. He still used knives regularly, but he’d sworn off the gunpowder bullets for Spider-Man. It would be poetic to murder him with the one thing he thought he’d trained Deadpool out of. 

Finally, with much tossing of Funko Pops over his shoulder, he found a spring. He held it to the light, only to realize it was just a rusty coil from his old couch. The sound of light footsteps grew closer and closer. Spider-Man had dropped down from the ceiling and was treading towards him.

“I mean, I can tell you why I… flip-flopped so hard back there. It’s more verbal diarrhea, though.”

“Blah blah blah. Not listening.”

“That’s fair. I get it.” Spider-Man was looming behind him now, casting a long, lean shadow into the dark of the closet. He was talking to himself repeatedly under his breath, something about leap years and faith. Was Spidey going off the deep end? Not that Deadpool cared. He was 100% done with caring.

“I have a peace offering.”

Deadpool ignored him. With Spider-Man so close, he was now fully focused on his task of assembling that machine gun as soon as possible. He was in The Zone.

“I’ll suck your dick.”

And then he froze.

Just for a moment. Then he relaxed again, returning to the Funko Pop pile. “Nah. I’m beyond paltry peace offerings. I need war reparations, baby boy. Massive ones. [Treaty of Versace](https://www.history.com/topics/world-war-i/treaty-of-versailles-1) shit. The kind you have to pay for decades while turning your entire country into a dirt poor, inflation-ridden hellscape.”

Spider-Man crouched down behind him and wrapped his arms around his neck. He leaned his head over Deadpool’s shoulder.

“Please, Wade. My oldest, best, and sexiest pal. Who totally should play the lead in a Ryan Gosling biopic, by the way. Wait, was it Ryan Gosling? Anyway. I would love to suck your dick.”

“Ryan Reynolds. God, it’s like you don’t even listen to me.” 

One of Spider-Man’s arms left his shoulder. He felt a hand sliding slowly down his front. 

“Yeah, it’s mostly been you listening, I know. I’ve been an ass, just the worst, and you want to shoot me. You’ve got every right to.” Spider-Man’s voice was low, and turned into a purr. “You can shoot things into me all you like.”

He had never heard Spider-Man purr in all his life. Not even during that one super slutty stage in their younger years when he had fucked Deadpool on top of buildings. 

The hand that had been traveling down his abdomen splayed itself against his crotch, and slowly started to rub circles around it. Spider-Man’s head felt weightless on his shoulder. 

“Not. Good. Enough,” Deadpool grit out through his teeth.

“Oh, Mr. Poolfield,” said Spider-Man in his most sultry, Queens-y accent. “I’ve been so awful. Honestly. I think you need to put some sense into me. Lots and lots and lots of sense. How could I ever make it up to you?”

He had had enough. 

Forcefully, he grabbed both of Spider-Man’s arms which were draped around his body and threw them off. Then he turned around, grabbed onto Spider-Man’s back and slid under to throw him to the ground. 

They landed in a crumpled heap, with Deadpool peering down at Spider-Man’s slightly widened lenses and straddling his thighs.

The Glock he’d tossed was right next to his foot. He grabbed it and put the barrel to Spidey’s head.

Spider-Man had the nerve to laugh.

“Didn’t think my Nanny impression was _that_ bad.” 

“You sounded like a two-bit mobster moonlighting as a [hooker with a heart of gold looking for their Richard Gere](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pretty_Woman),” said Deadpool. “It was hot, actually. But I’m even more pissed now.” 

“And why is that?” Spider-Man still looked infuriatingly calm. He even tilted his head slightly for the gun to push further into his temple.

“You’re not putting up a fight. Not even a little, just because you’re so confident that I won’t snuff out your shitty, flip-flopping ass. You think that if you whisper a few ‘Good boy’s here and there, I’ll just run over and loop myself right back into your leash? Fuck you.”

“I don’t think you won’t kill me,” replied Spider-Man. “I just don’t care if you do.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Look, DP, I’m only here today because of you. If you wanna collect, I’m not gonna stop you.” Spider-Man shrugged from his position on the floor.

“What?”

“You really ought to take responsibility for what you did, by the way,” he said. “Everything’s only gone downhill the moment you dragged me off the cement. Mangled spine and all.”

“I gave you my blood. I’ve jumped in front of bullets more times than I can count. I’ve ordered you every single type of food in the city. The collider ray ground me into piecemeal instead of you. I’ve been playing shrink for _months_ after she dumped you. I let you sleep under my roof.”

Spider-Man let out a bark of a laugh. “No one asked you to do those things, DP. Like I said, you started to be a hero all on your own. It was in you all along. And if you wanna stop, then be my guest.”

“Peter Bartholomew Parker,” said Deadpool. “You really are a piece of shit.” 

His finger pressed down on the outer safety trigger of the Glock. It was so minutely close to the real trigger, which would finally imbue the coil inside the gun with enough force to eject a bullet and blow Spider-Man’s indecipherable brains out. A single bullet would flash freeze his infuriatingly blank expression until it rotted away into bone. He would become the same bleached skeleton as any other average human, with nothing to ever signify that he was once someone stronger, faster, smarter, or better.

“Oh,” Deadpool said, realization hitting him. “You’re doing _my_ thing.” 

“Doing what?”

“When I goad you into doing what I want. That thing.”

“What do you think I want?” 

“World peace. Total eradication of Papa John’s. Your ex-wife. Dying because you know you’re not gonna get any of those things.”

“Y’know what’s funny?” said Spider-Man. “I actually have no idea what I want. I came here, because I didn’t know whether I wanted to apologize, or look for something, anything, to convince me to never talk to you again.”

Deadpool narrowed his eyes, then pulled the trigger. 

He heard a click. The magazine was empty.

“Losing your touch there, DP. You can go reload it. I’ll wait.” Spider-Man patted Deadpool’s thigh. 

“No. I’m _not_ gonna give you a tidy death, the kind that can be cleaned out of the carpet, because you’d be into it. I’m gonna torture you nice and slow. Then kill you.”

“Oh, I got some greaaat suggestions for the torturing part, pal. Got a pen?” Spider-Man’s mask lenses blinked rapidly in an imitation of batting eyelashes.

Deadpool stared at Spider-Man blankly, then turned his head and said into the distance, “How the fuck did Spider-Man get more annoying than me? Am I right, fellas?”

Then he threw the Glock over his shoulder, pulled out a switchblade from his thigh holster and brought it down with all his might towards Spider-Man’s eye. 

The full force of the blade met the surface of the eye lens, pushing through. 

Then it stopped, just as it made a tiny nick, indistinguishable among the hundreds of other old scratches on the lens. Spider-Man didn’t even so much as blink. Deadpool felt his fist that was holding the weapon shake, the knife making tiny trails on Spider-Man’s blank eyepiece with the minute motions.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” demanded Deadpool. “Why am I of all the people on the planet asking you that?”

“Remember what you said? That I’d always forgive you? Looks like you’ve got a glaring character flaw too.” Now Spider-Man looked smug. “You can’t kill me.”

“You were lucky my Glock was empty.”

“Please. You could probably tell in your sleep if the gun you’re holding is out of ammo.”

Deadpool wanted to object, but for just a moment, he thought. 

It was when Spider-Man had brought up possibly never talking to him again that he’d ghosted pulling the trigger to finally put his friend in the ground. He had given up several of his own lives and liters of blood for him. He had given up murder. He had loved murder so much he’d gone into the business of getting paid to commit it every day, and yet, there was still something greater worth giving it up for.

It must have been the sunk cost fallacy. He couldn’t kill Spider-Man because he had already given him his everything.

All Spider-Man had to do was come crawling back. And he would always come back, because no matter what Deadpool did, Spider-Man would forgive him. 

Their lifelong game of chicken was at a standstill.

Deadpool folded.

“Yeah, I can’t kill you,” he admitted disgruntledly. “Your pacifist ways fucked me up so bad that I’m practically neutered. You have both literally and metaphorically neutered me. Happy?” 

Deadpool spun the switchblade around, letting it dance on his index finger. Then he snapped it closed, shoved it back into its holster, disentangled himself from Spider-Man, and stretched. “Is the offer to suck my dick still valid? It doesn’t have an expiry date, right?”

Spider-Man got up on his arms, but was still on the floor. “Redeemable today only. I’ll even throw in the awful Nanny slash Godfather slash Pretty Woman accent for free. Just for you.”

“I want a British one, ‘cause I’ve got a specific script prepared and everything. You could channel two out of three of your actors, maybe? Try it. Say, ‘[Despunk your balls](https://youtu.be/0yxy2ED1yOc).’”

Spider-Man sighed long and hard. “Is this another meme thing? It’s a meme thing, isn’t it?”

“Petey, you are the most Twitter-ignorant pleb I’ve ever met.”

“The last social media I really cared about was [Meebo](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meebo),” said Spider-Man. “But I’ll do whatever. Whatever you want. Except memes.” 

He slowly lifted himself off the ground and got up on his knees. All traces of Peter Parker-like resignation steadily disappeared from his body. Spider-Man began to slink along the ground towards Deadpool, his form strangely sensuous and feline. 

The typical Spider-Man crawl was purely functional. Streamlined, in order to take up the least amount of space, like the carapace of a real spider. 

He was now stalking towards Deadpool, eyes locked on him like a predator, clearly meaning to be watched. 

When Spider-Man reached him, he spread his hands over Deadpool’s calves, then dragged his fingers slowly up his thighs, trailing them over every divot of muscle, digging into every dip, feeling out every inch of the sensitive inner area right below his crotch. 

Spider-Man pulled his mask up to his nose, then braced both his hands against the other’s hips. His teeth clasped onto the zipper guarding his prize, and slowly tugged it down over the steadily rising hill of Deadpool’s erection.

This was actually worse torture than if Spidey had just let him do all the work like they used to. 

“C’mon, Webs, we don’t have all day,” he whined maturely.

Spider-Man gave him a flat look from below. The band of his boxers was being worked on now, and slid down at an agonizing, glacial rate, as if to spite him for his complaining. Time slowed to a crawl, ticking down from nanoseconds to milliseconds to seconds. He could count every single blood cell drifting to his lower region, every grain of sand pattering down the hourglass.

This couldn’t go on. When his boxers were drawn down enough to expose half of his growing erection, he shot out his hand and pinched Spider-Man’s nose tight, cutting off airflow there completely.

Spider-Man instinctively gasped for breath, and when he parted his lips just wide enough to get the air he needed, he received a giant mouthful of Wade Jr. The portion of dick served was large enough to choke on, but he was a champ. The Amazing Spider-Man. He could take it. 

At first, Spider-Man coughed dryly, but then took Deadpool’s cock further and further in until it hit his uvula, his cheeks hollowing out when he couldn’t take the intrusion any deeper. His mouth was a tight pocket of heat, dizzying and white hot in its intensity. Deadpool let his hand off Spider-Man’s nose, and felt the hands that had been splayed over his hips migrate over to his groin and grasp firmly around his dick. 

He wished he could feel Peter’s real touch, not his gloves, but there was something magnetic about doing this in their suits. It was like they were young again, back to being in the dark about the other person under the mask. His own deformities unexposed, Spider-Man a spandex fantasy, the paragon of virtue. Wade hadn’t been young and innocent back then, but Spider-Man was, once upon a time. 

He couldn’t even remember how exactly twenty-five-year-old Spider-Man’s lips looked wrapped around his dick. As he’d grown older with the other, the face in his memory of the event had matured to match. 

Spider-Man worked to cover however much of Wade’s cock in spit he could manage, but even the gag reflex suppression he had mysteriously learned somewhere couldn’t help him take all of it. He supplemented with his fingers where his tongue couldn’t reach, moving both mouth and right hand in tandem to cover the entire length, every throbbing vein and moving patch of skin lavished upon with attention. His left hand moved to cup Deadpool’s balls, fondling them dexterously, like a sculptor teasing a figure out of clay. 

Spider-Man sucking his dick like a porn star was simultaneously the zenith of his miserable existence and the most painful. Every nerve in Deadpool’s penis had been dialed up to eleven due to getting edged about a million times that day, making Spider-Man’s every ministration, every swirl of the tongue on his precum-soaked tip, every glide of teeth on his spit-wet frenulum actual torture. He was forcing himself to picture winners of the World’s Ugliest Dog Contest as Spider-Man went to town on his dick because he would come in two seconds if he didn’t. His abdomen muscles were sore from how tightly he was wound up from controlling himself. He felt like he had just done one hundred crunches. His pulsing, living skin, usually dully aching everywhere, seemed to have decided to pool all their sensation into a singular point at his groin. He was living. He was dying. 

Spider-Man stopped, one hand still wrapped around Deadpool’s dick. He gulped a little to wet his mouth again, but when he spoke, his voice was clearly much hoarser than before. “You okay there?”

“No,” said Deadpool.

“Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good,” said Spider-Man cheerily. “Guess we’ll have to stop.”

“No,” repeated Deadpool, feeling like his brains had been sucked out of his schlong and he had been reduced to the mental level of a monosyllabic two year old. 

Spider-Man’s mask was still halfway up his face. He tugged it off, freeing his wild, grey-streaked hair and the full intensity of his gaze. His cheeks were slightly flushed with exertion, the red extending to the tips of his ears.

“Alright,” he said. 

Then he licked a stripe up Deadpool’s length from base to tip, his real eyes steadily boring up into Deadpool’s masked ones. Peter’s gaze was soft, intimate. Like they’d been doing this for years. Wade felt undressed in it. Stripped to the bone. He felt both raw, like his very nerve endings were exposed, and worshiped. 

When Peter’s tongue reached the apex of his cockhead and dipped into the slit, he felt his abdomen clench to the point of white hot pain. He locked eyes with his best friend of almost two decades, the one who hounded his waking thoughts and walked his dreams, the one who had believed him into a better human being, the inimitable Spider-Man. Then he came all over Peter Backstreet Boys Parker’s face. 

For a moment, he was stupefied. No thoughts, only pure waves of contentment flooded his entire body. It felt like he had physically shed twenty years. 

His mouth, however, achieved post-nut clarity almost immediately. 

“I’m pretty sure my jizz has medicinal healing properties. You really should lick it all up. Might help with indigestion,” said Deadpool.

“You know I don’t believe 99% of the stuff you say, right?” Peter said dryly. He stood up and wiped his knuckles across his face. There was a lot of come. It had gotten all over, from his hair to his eyelids to his cheeks to his chin. 

Even with questionable fluids dripping in waterfalls down his eyes, he winked. “If you want me to lick it all up, Mr. Poolfield, all you have to do is ask.”

“Okay. I’m inviting you to the buffet on your face, Petey. There’s lots and lots of ranch sauce.”

“I’m a tzatziki fan myself,” said Peter, cautiously licking the come he’d wiped off on his knuckle. “Sweet Jesus. You really need to lay off the jalapeños.” 

“Maybe I should feed you my dick more, so you can actually move up to the Mild Sauce packet at Taco Bell.”

“Okay, okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s been a long day. You wanna, I dunno, go take a shower?”

“No,” said Deadpool, reverting to the monosyllabic two year old mentality. 

“Don’t you wanna set an example of good hygiene? Stick it to the baby powder abusers all over the world?” 

“Nah. Need to watch your splooge [mukbang](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mukbang) first.”

Peter squinted at him. He probably had no idea what a mukbang was, but he didn’t ask. “You should change out of your suit first. Can’t be comfortable.”

“‘Kay. I’ll start stripping so we can give each other something to look at. Or lose our dinner over.”

Peter swiped fat pearly globs off his eyelids. He popped his fingers into his mouth with the same efficiency he had sucking excess ketchup off after eating fries. “Uh huh.”

“This is the part in our love story where you reassure me that I’m cute,” said Deadpool, undoing the clasp at the back of his head. 

Peter didn’t miss a beat to roast him. “You’re not cute. You’re millions of lightyears away from cute. The opposite end of the universe from cute.” 

“Yeah, I always thought I was more of a sex kitten myself,” said Wade. He batted his now exposed non-existent lashes at Peter as he removed his pouch belt. “That’s what’s on the opposite end of the universe from cute, right?”

“This is why I don’t compliment you,” said Peter, lapping at the come he’d collected off his cheek. “You’d go mad with power.”

“The Amazing Spider-Man isn’t cool enough to admit he would let Deadpool raw him into next century. Sad. Being honest with your feelings is healthy, pumpkin.”

Peter just snorted. Somehow, all the come on his face had disappeared and only some remained on his hair, which he didn’t seem to notice. He had gotten rid of the come with the same ruthless efficiency he deleted burgers. Wade felt a twinge of disappointment. It would have been nice to receive a show, like the one Peter had put on for him with the sexy crawl, ass in the air and hips languorously swaying with purpose. When had he even learned to do that, anyway? Where did he get the massively improved blowie skills from? Wade wanted to ask, but he had the feeling he’d have to hear more ex stories. 

He wondered if Peter had enjoyed giving him head. If it had even turned him on. Deadpool had stopped wearing crotch cups some time ago, but Spider-Man still had to wear one, since his suit was so much thinner to enable all his acrobatics. Wade couldn’t tell if he was hard. 

“Shower with me?” asked Wade. His various weapons and belts had been removed, and he was rolling his costume down his legs. 

“I’m tired.” 

“So? You’re gonna have to take a shower anyway. I know you’re a regular Scrooge. Shower with a buddy, save me some bills. Then I have more to spend on our rooftop dinners! Everybody wins!” Wade tossed his suit on the couch. Now all he had on were his chibi Spider-Man-patterned boxers that he’d bought on Etsy. Peter had beyond awful taste when it came to overseeing official Spider-Man merchandise, so he had no choice. The Etsy boxers had Peter go on a rant about the Digital Millennium Copyright Act when he first saw it hanging on Wade’s clothesline, but they’d been over that hill already. He hadn’t said anything when he’d pulled the same boxers down with his teeth. Ha.

Peter was now leaning against the wall next to the Funko Pop closet. “You just wanna fuck again, don’t you?”

Wade gasped in faux outrage. “Why, Monsieur Parker, who, pray tell, has sex in _la douche_? Your mind goes straight to the gutter! Tsk, tsk. Just kidding. Yeah, I’m ready to go again, baby. Now take off that ashy body condom and get your ass in my bathroom.”

* * *

* * *

Peter had been half-hard when he’d stripped out of his Spider-Man costume, and for that, he deserved to be edged until kingdom come. When they’d entered the shower stall, Wade had shut the glass door, turned on the showerhead, and slammed Peter face-first into the blush pink tile wall. He spent his sweet, sweet time groping and kneading every area of Peter’s body except for the part that most sorely needed attention. 

He mouthed over the column of Peter’s neck, finely-lined, taut, with hints of stubble. He ruthlessly dug his fingernails into Peter’s goosebump-flecked nipples. He put his hands all over Peter’s thighs, teasing the very edge of the area Peter wanted him to touch and delighting in the small indignant noises that he heard when his hands moved on somewhere else. He played around the rim of Peter’s asshole, testing its give with the occasional half finger.

Warm water sluiced over their skin. Wade paused in his ministrations to reach into his shower rack for a large glass container he kept there. 

Peter turned his face around to regard the other suspiciously. When he saw the container, his expression turned into one of resigned understanding. “Always wondered why you keep coconut oil in your shower.”

“It’s for my skin,” Wade explained nonchalantly. “I’m really into self-care and pampering these days. It’s how I look exactly the same as when I was thirty. Although having a horrific mutation might play a teensy part too. Also, I’m gonna stick this up your ass now.” 

“Whatever,” said Peter. He turned his face back to the wall again. “Just touch me.”

Wade scooped out a dab of coconut oil the size of a Werther’s Original. He wrapped one arm around Peter’s soft middle, tucking his chin into the other’s shoulder. With all the water that had washed over them, Peter smelled like nothing, save for a hint of his natural musk. It was nice to just ensconce himself in Peter’s space like this. To be close and finally have nothing interrupting them. Just the two of them in their own wet, drizzly world.

He felt a hand come up to caress his cheek. “You there?”

“Did you ever jerk off to me in the shower?” Wade asked suddenly.

“What — where is this coming from?”

“Answer the question.”

“Yep. C’mon, Wade. You gonna let this water run forever or what? I thought you were concerned about your bills.”

Wade said nothing. He spread some coconut oil in his palm. With that same hand, he began stroking Peter’s neglected dick slowly. With several strokes, it perked up into almost full hardness. Even over the patter of the water, he could hear Peter’s breathing become more and more ragged. 

“Fuck,” he heard Peter mutter under his breath. Wade sped up his pace. He fully intended on making Peter orgasm through being jerked off. Then the real fun would begin. After all, he intended on coming twice tonight, and he believed very much in paying that same attention to his partner.

Also, he was still ticked off from getting cockblocked throughout the day. 

Peter’s self-control really had improved over the years. No matter what noises Wade wrung out of him, the surrounding tiles remained unbroken, even as Peter’s hands against the wall slowly closed themselves into shaking fists. He always maintained some semblance of self-composure, even as he loomed closer and closer to the edge. When he finally came, it was with a choked gasp that segued into a throaty moan, then into heavy pants that could barely be heard over the hiss of the water. His spend was instantly washed away into the shower drain.

Either Peter had also become much less vocal over the years, or Wade just wasn’t going hard enough. His head left its rest over Peter’s shoulder briefly so he could dip into the coconut oil container again for another healthy dollop. Then he wasted no time in spreading the oil all over the tips of his fingers and driving two of them right up the other’s ass, curling his joints at the walnut-sized bump inside.

From what Wade remembered, it used to be so easy to make Spider-Man scream. Usually just a few good strokes at his sweet spot would get him going. This time, Peter only gritted his teeth. “What are you doing?”

Wade put his chin back on the other’s shoulder and drove his fingers into Peter’s prostate again. He heard a choked-off moan, barely audible through the hiss of the shower. He scissored his fingers, testing the tightness one more time. It was quite forgiving, which was interesting. His own dick had been at a lazy half mast for a good while, and thinking about being Peter’s gateway to regular assplay was a fascinating thought. It would definitely be going into his repository of wank material. 

The two fingers withdrew and came back with a third. Three fingers seemed to be straining the limits of Peter’s asshole, so he prodded and poked some more, particularly at Peter’s sensitive spot. The voice that responded was guttural and straining at the seams. “Christ. It’s too much. Just let me catch my breath — ” 

He dug his knuckles in hard. 

He heard the beginnings of a shout, but then Peter sucked a massive breath in, like he was forcing his noises back somewhere within him. The knuckles on Peter’s hands were white from the exertion of digging his nails into his palms.

“You’re a real dick, you know that?” he said. It had no heat because his voice was high-pitched, as if he had sucked in some helium to deal with the overstimulation. Wade could feel the full extent of the strain Peter was going through from his head’s position on Peter’s shoulder, where he could feel every taut, corded muscle in the other’s neck against his cheek. 

It was cute how he was still so sensitive. The same heightened senses that allowed him to detect state-of-the-art trackers on his body undid him all the same during sex. He had just learned to hide it better.

“You really shouldn’t hold yourself back, Petey. Just let it all out,” said Wade smugly. He gave a few strokes to his own dick and hot dogged it between the cleft of Peter’s ass, just to sear the image before him for good into his hippocampus. God, he had waited _forever_. It felt like eons had passed between thirty something year old Deadpool fucking innocent sorority girl Spider-Man on top of the Citibank building and current Wade Winston Wilson about to go ham on an exhausted Peter Bratwurst Parker’s behind. If only his younger self knew that he would experience an even better version of Spidey that had a fatter ass, could suck dick without choking, and laughed easily at his stupid jokes. 

He did miss Peter’s noise levels from the last time they did this, though.

He turned the showerhead off and moved away out of Peter’s space as much as he could. “Can you get on all fours?”

Peter turned his head around. He was flushed everywhere from the heated fog of the shower and from their previous exertions, droplets of water cascading everywhere down his body. It was a good look. Wade almost wished he could see that face as he pounded him, but the positions that allowed them to face each other wouldn’t work for what he wanted. 

Peter squinted at him suspiciously. 

“You said you’d do whatever I wanted,” Wade sing-songed.

“You really are twelve years old,” said Peter. “Ugh. This stuff is doing a number on my legs.” Nevertheless, he obliged Wade’s request, kneeling down and unceremoniously presenting Wade with a view of his rear end. 

Carefully, Wade gripped Peter’s hips and lined up his dick with the other’s asshole. He knew he was big, and he wasn’t enough of a jerkwad about it, if he were to be honest with himself. 

“You’re gonna _love_ this [five dollar footlong](https://youtu.be/MJF3mknSTlo),” he said. There were twelve hundred other obnoxious phrases floating around in his brain he wanted to blurt out but the immediate needs of his dick drowned out every single one of them. He began pushing in. 

Peter had been reduced to wheezing as Wade’s cock entered him, inch by inch. “Wade. You are making this so — much worse — than it — ” He broke off into a gasp as Wade fully, finally sheathed his dick inside.

For a moment, Wade just stayed there, basking in being encased by Peter’s intense heat. Then he started to move. One of his hands moved from Peter’s hip to his dick, pumping him in time with the thrusts. Peter started to sputter when he did so, protesting against all the intense contact with his still sensitive length. His healing factor made his refractory period shorter than an average human’s, but he still hadn’t fully recovered. 

Wade wasn’t going to lie. He enjoyed it when Peter sounded like he was halfway to sobbing. In fact, he relished it. He usually enjoyed bottoming, but tormenting Spider-Man sexually had a special, secret, evil place in his heart. Maybe his mercenary’s sadistic streak still existed a mile wide somewhere deep inside him, and resented the one person who’d caused him to repress it. The Spider-Man angel on his shoulder looked at him sadly from his usual spot of being roasted on a spit over an open fire, apple stuffed in his mouth. How could he be masked and still be holding an apple in his mouth? Why hadn’t the angel Spidey been gangbanged by the five devil Deadpools pirouetting around him already?

Peter was being fucked at a punishing pace, as if over ten years of lust, resentment, and longing were being taken out on him all at once. Once again, he didn’t complain, just gritted his teeth through it all, his wet hair sticking to the bathtub floor, forehead pressed flat against the ground. He seemed more determined than ever to not make any noise, even though being fucked and jerked off at the same time must have been excruciating on his heightened senses. A wheeze, half-choked sob, or muttered “Oh my God” would come out sometimes, but that was it.

“Wade,” he finally said after a minute of their skin smacking skin reverberated throughout the bathroom. His voice sounded raw, hoarse, even though he had barely made any noise the whole time he was being fucked. Beads of precum lazily trailed down from his dick onto the bathtub floor. 

He breathed in sharply, as if he’d break on his next exhale. He was probably about to come. 

Wade circled his hand around the base of Peter’s dick, tightly enough to hurt, and choked off his orgasm completely.

“What the — you — ” His curses died immediately on his lips as he continued to get pounded from behind relentlessly. Instead, they were finally, _finally_ superseded by moans and pleading. “Wade, _please_ , take your hand off, just let me — ” 

“No.” Having past partners who were paranormal freaks in bed truly paid off for Wade’s stamina. He had been trained by a succubus who had no qualms about edging him until his dick actually fell off, which was a feat considering he typically reacted to delayed gratification like a three year old throwing a tantrum. For some reason, he couldn’t tolerate Peter doing the same things a succubus did to him. Spider-Man edging him was a no-no, but edging Spider-Man? If he really put his mind to it, he could do this all day. He would take as long as was necessary to make Peter finally give up and start screaming and begging for mercy. Then everything would be worth it.

 _It’s what she deserves_ , said the Kim Kardashian [image macro](https://media.tenor.com/images/8020b4c74e9f71779b63569d1dd874c3/tenor.gif) flashing in his head.

He continued to fuck Peter at a punishing pace while keeping his grip vise-like around the base of the other’s dick, stoppering the sweet, sweet release Peter wanted. Leaning in, he whispered, “I’ll let you come if you tell me something.”

Peter’s fists, which were still bone-white at the knuckles, suddenly spread into a claw-like grip onto the floor of the tub. There were little flecks of dust from where his nails had dug into the wet porcelain. 

“What?” he managed to croak between bursts of ragged breathing and just barely aborted screams.

“What did you think about when you jerked off to me in the shower?” Wade slowed his thrusts so Peter could at least be semi-coherent. 

“Christ. Really — ” Peter’s voice finally broke off into a real scream as the pace picked back up to a violent speed at his non-answer. He thrashed around, but he was still controlling himself so that nothing went flying. If he let go just a little, he could’ve easily slipped out of Deadpool’s human-level grip. But he didn’t. He just continued to grind his forehead onto the floor of the tub, teeth pressed down on his lips almost to the point of breaking skin.

“C’mon, Pete. I could do this all night. And day. And night. And then the dick falling off in your ass thing would happen again, but from chafing. You wouldn’t want that, would you?” Wade punctuated his threat with a particularly intense slam. He heard a crunch from where Peter’s fingers had suddenly left quarter inch deep depressions in the tub. 

Nice.

He rolled his hips again, changing his angle slightly so that the bulk of his thrust was aimed at that one spot Peter probably did not need any more stimulation from right now.

Peter really screamed, probably enough for the people upstairs and next door to hear. This building was dilapidated, despite being smack dab in a pricey Midtown area. Being continuously occupied meant it could never be torn down, just renovated over and over, any glaring flaws slapped over with a new coat of paint. The walls were tragically thin. 

Wade aimed at the same spot in Peter again. And again. And again.

“Why do you have to make this hard for me?” Wade sighed. God, he was such a professional. Internally, he was clapping like a seal at his own incredible composure. If he wasn’t playing images of ugly dogs humping in four of the five cinema screens in his mind again, he would’ve come the instant Peter started wheezing. Peter was probably crying by now, dick still achingly hard in Wade’s vise-like grip. He was hiding his face, but the wanton noises he was making were plain as day and loud as a jackhammer.

“It was — ” Peter choked out, but abruptly cut himself off with another lasciviously loud cry as he was slammed into again. Wade hadn’t really been thinking when he did that. Tormenting the other was almost muscle memory at this point. Oops. 

He slowed his pace. “Go on.” 

Peter was speaking through gritted teeth. “I… thought about you in my room. From way back.”

“And?”

Below him, Peter sounded like he could barely breathe anymore, let alone talk. “When you… followed me home. And we saw each other’s faces. For the first time.”

Wade paused. Did Peter really jerk off to seeing his nasty squash-textured mug? This was porn for both his secret spank bank _and_ his self-esteem. Or maybe Peter had a secret uggo kink and that’s why Mary Jane left. Or maybe the darkness of the room that night had obscured Wade’s worst features and made him look palatable, for once. 

He pressed on. “Aww. You’re such a romantic. What else?”

“You want a valedictorian speech or wh — ” Peter got another sharp stab to his prostate for his sass. He restrained himself admirably this time, only gasping as if the air had been punched out of him. His dick twitched in Wade’s grasp.

“No need to be contrarian. Just tell me what I wanna hear and you get off. Easy. Or else my neighbors are gonna be treated to the Spider-Man Symphony in A Major all night. Then they’re gonna call in a noise complaint, and the cops might come bursting in and see you with a raging hard-on while a sentient apricot pit fucks you in the ass. Is that what you want, schnookums?”

“You’re evil. Just pure evil — ” Peter was punished with a hard thrust again for failing to answer adequately, which wrung another delicious scream out of his throat. When he recovered after several bursts of gasping, he relented. There were definitely tears in his eyes. “Alright! Fuck. I — liked it. It felt like our real first time. Having your actual hands on me. And in me. I never had that experience before. It scared the living crap out of me, but the danger of it… it was… hot. Insanely hot. I thought about it a lot. Um. I’m bad at this. I’m so bad at this.”

Deadpool considered torturing him more, but it was good enough. He’d have to milk Peter for more sordid fantasies in the future. Haha. Milk. 

He smacked Peter’s butt. “You tried. Silver star for effort.”

“I’ll take it. Please let me come now.” 

“Didn’t catch that. What did you say?” It was hard to resist being an asshole when hearing Spider-Man beg was so fun. He loosened his grip on the base of Peter’s dick and moved his hand off to give a few short strokes to the head, eliciting a few more desperate moans. Peter’s face even turned around now to look Wade in the eye. The fog from the shower had cleared out, making it obvious that his eyes were red-rimmed and that his teeth were gritted. 

“Please. Let me. Come.”

Wade took his hand off Peter’s cock to place both his hands on the other’s hips. Then he continued his previous campaign against that one sad, terribly abused spot in Peter’s ass. He pounded Peter’s behind like it was mochi. His dick was the [giant mallet](https://youtu.be/tmSrULDVRPc), and it was right before New Year’s, so they’d have to be pounding out _a lot_ of the sticky stuff. 

Wade finally let go. He shut off every single screen in the cinema of his mind, allowing himself to be fully entrenched in ecstasy. He wasn’t sure whether the deafening sounds he was hearing were from his blood roaring between his ears or from Peter, who had most likely come by now and was being relentlessly overstimulated a second time that night. He had also lied, as usual, about the neighbors giving enough of a shit to call the cops, so it was doubly impressive that Peter had lost the self-control to care. He did not feel sorry if Peter had become lost in an excruciating reverie of his own from being milked dry. Not one bit. 

In fact, he kind of hoped Peter would lose it so hard that he’d cause another super strength incident down there, because he wouldn’t feel it anyway. He hoped Peter would be feeling the pounding for days afterwards when he sat down, like his insides had been permanently branded by Wade’s dick. He liked that Peter would have something in there to remember him by. 

He wasn’t even sure if his cock even existed anymore, if it had floated off somewhere as he finally, _finally_ came again in Peter’s ass after thirteen years of being good. 

Over all those years, he had tried so hard to be decent. He didn’t hit on his best friend. He had catfished on Tinder. He had talked to goth girls on [Omegle](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Omegle) about their taxidermy collections. He had a three year long FWB situation with an alien who’d mistaken him for a celebrity on their home planet. He had tried to tell himself Spider-Man was not painfully hot and was, in fact, an inverse-Wolverine sensual bridge troll who just had no body hair and wasn’t beefy. 

All of those compunctions were thrown straight out the window like a Steinway piano. Time truly stood still. He thought he could see the black waters signifying being pulled into Death’s realm. 

He really came. On Peter Parker’s face, and now in his ass.

Then his head hurt. Inexplicably, his cheeks also started to hurt.

“Wade,” said a very tired voice vaguely above him. He could swear that he was hearing his name being called by this exact same voice for like the billionth time that night. There were slapping sounds. “Wake up, you freaking dickweed.” 

His eyes fluttered open, greeted by the bright light of his own bathroom. He was still in the shower, but on the floor. The stall had become almost dry by now. Then he looked at his crotch. It was perfectly intact.

At first, he’d been filled with terror at the thought that everything might have been a dream and that he and Peter had never fucked. That they’d never even argued, and they’d walked back to his apartment with no problems and he’d just dissociated jerking off alone in his shower stall again.

Then he heard a tiny drip, and saw globs of white liquid steadily leaking down onto the shower floor from Peter’s ass. It looked like there had been a lot. He hoped Peter burned inside from the overstimulation and the remnants of jalapeño flavor he complained about. 

Still, Wade was slightly disappointed, because he was the one who’d lost himself completely in the act. Peter looked barely worse for wear. The only major difference was that he wore an extremely pissed off expression, and that his eyes were very wet. 

“Whahappened?” Wade felt himself slur.

“You came in me, stood still, then when I pulled you out, you dropped to the floor and knocked yourself out cold.” Peter was squatting over him. “I think my knees are busted for the next two days with that stunt you pulled. Christ, I’m so sore I can’t even st — anyway, get up. I need you to turn the shower back on so we can get clean for real. I always forget how this thing works. Never seen so many buttons and tchotchkes for a regular old shower in my life.” 

“Okay,” Wade said dazedly. 

After he turned on the showerhead again, Peter told him to leave the stall so he could get clean alone. Peter was aggressively insistent about it, almost as close to murderous as he had been slamming Wade into the glass wall. He had really wanted to investigate the cream pie dripping down Peter’s thighs, but he never got the chance before he was hustled out. Wade sat on the toilet while water hissed quietly in the background. He thought vaguely about how he was being cucked by his own shower. 

Peter seemed awfully used to getting clean while sitting. It was interesting. 

When he got out of the shower, which was left running for the next occupant, he was only limping very slightly. Now that was disappointing. 

* * *

* * *

When Wade stepped out of the bathroom, adequately showered and steaming naked, he saw Peter had already helped himself to a set of clean clothing from the bedroom drawers. Even though he was a lanky man, he was always dwarfed by Wade’s clothing, which in this case was a [dabbing sunglasses-wearing unicorn t-shirt](https://www.amazon.com/Dabbing-Unicorn-T-Shirt-Dab-Gift/dp/B07BSMKLG5) and navy blue sweatpants that bunched up around Peter’s ankles. He was spread out on the sofa, feet dangling over the couch arms, staring into a fascinating patch of nothing on the ceiling. The shucked Deadpool costume was balled up under his head as a makeshift pillow.

“You good, Petey?” Wade peered down at the sofa, completely shameless about his junk dangling about.

“No. Everything hurts,” said Peter, still facing the ceiling. “But you’re probably into that.”

“You know me,” said Wade. He was not sorry at all.

“I bet this is how it would’ve felt to slowly melt in another dimension. But with all the suffering localized to my ass.”

“Do you want me to never do it again?”

“Eh,” said Peter. He groaned, then rolled around so that he was facing the backrest of the sofa. “I’m beat.” 

“You gonna sleep on the couch?”

“Yep,” Peter said into the sofa.

“I demand that spooning be part of today’s being-a-hot-and-cold-dickwad consolation package,” said Wade, without any hint of guilt or shame whatsoever, as usual.

“That so, bud?” 

“I might have to go full on [Karen](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karen_\(pejorative\)) if it isn’t. Put on my [Katie Couric](https://www.hairfinder.com/celebritypictures5/katie-couric-hair-bob.jpg) wig and holler for your bored teenage manager who’s one lunch break away from running off into the bathroom and sexting his girlfriend,” said Wade.

Peter finally stopped staring at the ceiling and looked at him blankly. “Don’t you think I’ve been punished enough?”

“Spooning is fun! And it’s cold. And I won’t try anything funny. Pinky swear. Scout’s honor.”

“You’re really big — don’t make any jokes about what I just said, just don’t — and your bed is kinda small. Dunno if we can both fit.” 

“You’d lay for hours with me crushed under giant, dusty cement blocks but wouldn’t want to do the same thing on baby soft 1000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets? What kind of screwed up human being are you?” Wade put his hands on his hips.

“Alright, you’ve got a point,” Peter conceded. Then he slowly reactivated, turning to face the ceiling again. “Fine. I’ll come. Don’t make any jokes about that either, I know what you’re thinking — and just let me lie here for a minute.”

Wade left Peter to his ceiling staring and went into his bedroom to put on pajamas, as well as check that everything was tidy. To be honest, he did not clean his own apartment. He paid someone else to do it since he now had barely any weapons that could go off and murder a cleaning lady by accident, nor did he keep around any classified information that could be leaked. No organization worth its salt would trust him with anything more than pure ops execution.

At this point, he deserved the guillotine just as much as Tony Stark did. The only excuse he had was that he couldn’t be killed, so he might as well sponsor orphans, generously tip his cleaning people, and pamper himself with life-sized Frodo Baggins cut-outs, one of which was looming in the corner of his room. 

After several minutes, Peter groggily reappeared in the doorway of the bedroom. He walked to the foot of the bed on unsteady feet, pulled the covers over to one side, and dropped face first onto the pillow like an anvil. On the bedside table next to him was the missing Spider-bear, sitting innocently as if it had always been a fixture on Wade’s nightstand.

Peter turned his face so his voice wasn’t muffled. “Thanks for not fucking the bear, by the way.”

“You’re welcome. It was really tempting, since he's a good deal cuter than most of the fuck-plushies in my harem, but I found my inner good samaritan and let him go at the last second.” Wade sat on the edge of the bed. 

“You stole a cherished possession out of my home without telling me and whisked it away to another borough, but at least you didn’t fuck it. It’s the little things. What would I ever do without a stand up guy like you in my life?”

“Um, be dead?”

“Yeah, I owe you a million more dick sucks for that,” said Peter. “The [Tootsie pop](https://youtu.be/0UYvsk6_foc) kind. Not the deep throating kind. That you can collect in the next, next, _next_ decade. When I don’t have any more teeth so it gets super easy.” He adjusted his position on the bed so that he was facing the ceiling. “Can I be real with you for a second?”

“Yeah?”

Peter didn’t say anything for half a minute. He just breathed quietly. Then he sighed.

“It’s kind of crazy, but I was thinking about not existing and other thrills and jollies again, and whenever I tried, my brain, it just does stupid things sometimes, I don’t know — a tiny angel version of you would show up on the ceiling. You know what it did?”

“Yeah, that is crazy,” said Wade. “Imagine having tiny angel and devil people on your shoulders. I thought that only happened in cartoons. Are you secretly a cartoon, sweetpea? Is there something you’re not telling me? Are we all actually 2D characters, being manipulated by the will of some higher being who sits at their desk 24/7? Maybe they even get paid to conjure up unintentionally sexually titillating images of costumed beefcakes. Shit. Imagine.” 

Peter snorted. “You’re getting a bit too out there for me, pal. Anyway, about the angel you. It wouldn’t do anything useful. All it would do was moon me. I don’t get it. Why would you even be an angel? You’re the biggest dillhole I’ve ever met and you lie about every single thing possible under the sun. I think, at the very least, my anti-existential dread hallucination should be about something that’s actually motivating. Like coffee.”

Wade tucked what Peter just said into the recesses of his little shriveled heart. Then he pretended he didn’t hear the first part, and got onto the bed. “Coffee doesn’t even work for you. Why do you drink it?”

He pulled the giant down comforter over the both of them. Whew, it was cramped. He could feel the angular jut of Peter’s shoulder into his chest, almost into where his lungs should be.

“I dunno,” said Peter. “Uncle Ben used to make a whole pot every morning and give me some after I begged and it kind of just became associated with nice things and warmth over time? Something like that.”

“I think those Spider-kids wouldn’t be too happy if you kept messing around with those ideas of non-existence,” said Wade, trying to sound casual. “Especially Gwen.”

Peter slapped his hands over his eyes, inadvertently elbowing Wade in the neck. “I don’t want to think about it. I forgot how much seeing her kills — ” 

“Ow.”

“Sorry,” said Peter. He got up slightly to reach over to Wade’s neck, and stroked there carefully. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

Peter’s index finger lifted from his neck, leaving only a shiver on his constantly roiling skin. It was strange how gentle he was, given how roughly Wade had treated him in the shower. 

“Let’s just go to sleep, alright?” Peter said softly, slipping back under the covers. “It’s been a really, really long day.”

Wade knew why this particular day had been long for himself, but inevitably, his thoughts drifted to Peter. 

He knew Peter had a high school friend die in front of his eyes once. He wondered if Gwen, brilliant, strong, and sad, had anything to do with that, if seeing her had somehow stirred up memories in Peter that he thought he’d forgotten. Made him think of all the events he thought he’d buried within the deepest recesses of his brain already, and instill him with a fear of those same events happening again, and again, and again, even to those that he rationally knew couldn’t die. 

Wade thought about how much he himself hated doctors of every kind. How he didn’t look at potato peelers anymore because he would get the urge to peel off his epidermis over and over just to see the fresh, unmarred skin grow back in, even if only for the tiniest fraction of a second.

It really was none of his beeswax, as Peter had said back when they were walking to his apartment. But he wanted the beeswax. He wanted all of Peter’s beeswax, to make it his. He wanted to give Peter all his beeswax too. And they’d turn all that built up beeswax, the beeswax they’d collected for years and years and years, into candles, moisturizers, lip balms, furniture polish, and other more pleasant and beautiful things. 

And if they couldn’t transform the beeswax into something better, that was fine too. They’d just have a massive lump of beeswax to look at, which was nice enough in and of itself, if one thought about it.

Wade was about to tug on the light cord chain next to the bed when he noticed that Peter still wasn’t asleep. He was staring into him intently, with his earnest, soft eyes. They would probably look the same whether he was twenty three, thirty eight, or seventy five. 

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Peter asked.

Wade stared back. “Are you still gonna be here tomorrow morning?”

“Why? Is there something important you wanna do? If it’s cock destroyer stuff again, then I’m definitely taking a rain check.”

“So you do look at memes!” Wade gasped as if he were clutching his pearls at the idea. 

“On occasion,” said Peter airily. “C’mon, Wade. What is it that you want me to be here for tomorrow?”

“Honestly? There’s nothing. It’d just be [mondo cool](https://youtu.be/p9uFxdAzcr0?t=23) if you didn’t run off on me again. That’s all.”

“You could put a tracker on me. I’ll pretend I didn’t notice. You’re into that, aren’t you?” There was a hint of mischievousness in Peter’s gaze. 

“Will you stay?” asked Wade, dead serious for once in his life. 

Peter sighed softly. He turned over to face away, and gathered Wade’s arms to circle around him, both of their hands interlacing. His palms were toasty and callused under where the spandex had been smooth. It was a cold winter night, the Manhattan skyline starless and choked with smog. Under the covers, Wade pressed his nose into Peter’s neck, where it smelled clean and felt sandpaper-like against his skin from the grey and brown fuzz, distinct against the rest of his smooth body. Peter was warm and familiar. 

“Yeah,” Peter said. “I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING:** There is porn here. The porn has dubcon-ish undertones, makes little sense, is self-indulgent, and is fairly long. It's both really horny and really stupid because of Deadpool dialogue. I get nervous at points about the porn being cringy and try to diffuse it with silliness, so I'm not sure how well that works. It is also less edited compared to other sections because I don't want to read my own porn. Like, c'mon. 
> 
> **IF YOU WANT TO SKIP THE PORN:** it begins at "Spider-Man began to slink along the ground towards Deadpool" and ends at "Over all those years, he had tried so hard to be decent."  
>    
> I want to see All The Horny Happen but it's insanely hard to write for me. To be honest, silly dialogue is the easiest part to write and everything else is significantly harder. The celebratory get-together porn near the end is the reason the final portion of the fic was so difficult to get out. I have actually never written this much porn in my life. What an accomplishment!


	7. One Last Time

“Alright, let’s do this one more time,” Spider-Man had announced, a year after they first met. After the mobster castration or the food cart destruction. They still couldn’t agree on which incident had been their fateful initial encounter.

The Amazing Spider-Man had been silhouetted from behind by the late afternoon sun, prismatic lens flares dancing around his head and giving him an almost blinding halo that hurt Deadpool to look at. For their new introduction to each other, they chose the top of a nondescript brownstone in the Upper West Side. The building was all creaky fire escapes and little rectangular Art Deco windows that even a cat could barely peep through. To be honest, Deadpool hadn’t been that big on rooftops outside of sniping. He didn’t know why, but lately, he’d become quite the fan of grappling hooks and jogging up fifteen flights of stairs.

“Let’s introduce ourselves. Properly.” Spider-Man’s eye lenses were wide, earnest. “Now that we’re not trying to destroy each other. Or, well. It’s more like you trying to destroy me and me trying to put you behind bars.” 

“I was minding my own highly profitable black market Fortune 500 business just fine, thanks,” said Deadpool, looking down at his nails. “If you weren’t so up my ass about the no-killing thing, but up my ass in the least fun way possible, like in a vinegar enema way, because I wouldn’t mind — ” 

“Nice to meet you, I’m Spider-Man,” Spider-Man interrupted, holding out his hand. Dust motes floated around his extended palm, visible in the bright light. “I like swinging around, dollar hot dogs, and kicking butt. Non-lethally. Maybe with some broken bones here and there. Not intentionally, though. Zucker & Zucker LLP have been after me for a while.”

Deadpool clasped the outstretched hand firmly with both of his own, shaking it up and down. “I’m Deadpool, merc with a mouth, regenerating degenerate, future [People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive](https://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-11786069), webmaster of the internet’s first Dorothy Zbornak fanlisting and shrine, proud licensed knife masseuse, the [Anthony Bourdain](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kitchen_Confidential_\(book\)) of flapjacks, excommunicated X-Men Wikipedia article senior contributor, aspiring How to Draw Manga-authoring hack, Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Complete Series owner, and so on. I have fifty more epithets and no one else has ever let me get to this point, actually, so you’re already the coolest person I’ve ever met. We’re gonna be BFFs. I just know it!” 

“Um, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Spider-Man, whose hand was still being shaken fervently all the while. “Are you gonna let go now?”

“In my homeland, the longer you shake someone’s hand, the greater the sincerity being expressed,” replied Deadpool. “Also, it’s tradition to butt bump someone when you become acquaintances.”

“Which country is that?”

“Canada.”

Spider-Man gave him a sidelong stare and withdrew his hand from Deadpool’s grasp. “Somehow, I don’t think you’re being honest. Doesn’t bode well for our future working relationship, pal.”

“Eh, whatevs,” said Deadpool. “You’ve been after my ass since forever. Now you’ve caught me in your little webby clutches. Don’t you wanna make it count? I know I’m irresistible.” 

“Right,” said Spider-Man, making a small cough into his fist. His assent had probably been sarcastic but the natural politeness of his tone made him sound sincere. “Totally irresistible. Cute as a button.”

“Wait, you agree?” Deadpool slapped both his cheeks in joy, like a happy version of Macaulay Culkin in the Home Alone poster. “OMG! I knew we’d get along!” 

“We’ll see.” Spider-Man turned around, his palm outstretched, right middle and ring fingers ready to press down on his web shooter. “Let’s hold off on the — whatever you said. Gonna head out now. _Don’t_ kill anyone.”

Deadpool had almost missed it, but he didn’t. Just for a moment, Spider-Man had turned his head around and glanced in Deadpool’s direction, as if he had expected the other to follow. He gave a minute nod, and then swung off the building, backflipping extravagantly into another cleanly shot line of web attached to the next structure over. 

Deadpool unraveled the tangle of his grappling hook, then shot it at a nearby building in his own facsimile of Spider-Man’s web strings. He pulled to ensure the rope’s give, grabbed on, then leapt off, swinging past flashing traffic lights, worn down signs, and electricity poles. 

Inexplicably, he heard a voice right next to him. 

“Not bad,” said Spider-Man, who had apparently slowed himself down to keep even pace. 

“Yeah, if I could shoot webs out my ass, I’d make a damn good Spider-Man,” Deadpool yelled into the stale New York wind.

“It’s a common misconception, but the webs don’t actually come out of my ass,” Spider-Man yelled back. He swung ahead, leaving a vaguely Dunkin Donuts-scented tailwind. “Bet you can’t keep up.”

Deadpool hauled himself up to the building the grappling hook had been attached to. He pulled the hook off the roof ledge, then retracted it to ready the rope for another sail through the air.

“Arrogant jackass,” he said to Spider-Man’s form on the next roof over, standing still as if to taunt him. Then he aimed his hook at that same roof and fired, leaping off the ledge into the full blinding brilliance of the afternoon sun. 

As he swung through the air, feeling like Tarzan, fully untouchable, Spider-Man became closer and closer, bigger and bigger, no longer a shoe-sized, gleaming silhouette in his vision. He didn’t know why, but as he drew nearer and nearer, he had a feeling that Spider-Man was smiling at him for the first time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and accompanying me on this journey. I appreciate everyone who took the time to leave super kind comments, they really made my day and kept me going. Cackling to myself as I wrote also helped. 
> 
> Do NOT fall for a person like the Spider-Man or Deadpool in this story, folks. 
> 
> I'll probably still be editing this in the future, ironing out mistakes like gun stuff, 2018-relevant pop culture, etc. Bye! Hope to write for Spideypool again soon. I have an extra porn chapter for this in the works that may or may not be uploaded.


End file.
